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DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


IN  TWO  VOLOMBS. 
VOL.  I. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  H.  K.  BROWNE. 


BOSTON 
PERRY  MASON   &  CO,, 

TEMI'LK  PLACE. 

1884.  D:,:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


526931? 


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PREFACE. 


Hi 
X 

00 
00 


I  HAKE  BO  bold  as  to  believe  tliat  the  faculty  {' 
liabit)  of  closely  and  carefully  observing  the  char 
of  men,  is  a  rare  one.  I  have  not  even  found,  i 
my  experience,  that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit)  of  c 
and  carefully  observing  so  much  as  the  faces  of  n 
a  general  one  by  any  means.  The  two  coran 
mistakes  in  judgment  that  I  suppose  to  arise  fro 
former  default,  are,  the  confounding  of  shynesf 
arrogance,  and  the  not  understanding  that  an  obs 
nature  exists  in  a  perpetual  struggle  with  itself. 

Mr.  Dombey  undergoes  no  violent  internal  cl 
either  in  this  boot,  or  in  life.  A  sense  of  his  inj 
is  within  him  all  along.  The  more  he  represses 
more  unjust  he  necessarily  is.  Internal  shame  a 
ternal  circumstances  may  bring  the  contest  to  th 
face  in  a  week,  or  a  day;  but  it  has  been  a  conti 
years,  and  is  only  fought  out  after  a  long  balai 
victory. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  I  dismissed  Mr.  Domb 
have  not  been  impatient  to  offer  this  critical  n 
upon  him,  and  I  offer  it  with  some  confidence. 

I  began  this  book  by  the  lake  of  Geneva,'  and  wi 
with  it  for  some  months  in  ^xaw^e.    Tba  aawa 


iv  PREFACE. 

between  the  writing  and  the  place  of  writing  is  so 
curiously  strong  in  my  mind  that  at  this  day,  although 
I  know  every  stair  in  the  little  Midshipman's  house, 
and  could  swear  to  every  pew  in  the  church  in  which 
Florence  was  married,  or  to  every  young  gentleman's 
bedstead  in  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment,  I  yet  con- 
fusedly imagine  Captain  Cuttle  as  secluding  himself 
from  Mrs.  McStinger  among  the  mountains  of  Switzer- 
land. Similarly,  when  I  am  reminded  by  any  chance 
of  what  it  was  that  the  waves  were  always  saying.  I 
wander  in  my  fancy  for  a  whole  winter  night  about  the 
streets  of  Paris — as  I  really  did,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
on  the  night  when  my  little  friend  and  I  parted  com- 
pany forever. 


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CONTENTS. 


I.     DOMBBT  ADD  SOH     . 

n.    In  which  Tihklt  Protibion  li 


FjlMILIBS 12 

III.  In  WKtCH  Mr.  Domket,  as  a  Man  and  a  Father,  ib  skbn 

AT  THE  Head  or  the  Kiime-Defarthunt  ...  33 

IV.  In  which  some  hobb  First  Afpearahces  are  made  on 

THE  StaOB  of  these  AdYKNTUREB  ...  3i 

v.    Paul's  Procress  and  CuBrBTBNiNO 47 

VI.    Paul's  Second  Deprivation 66 

VII.    A  Bird's-eye  Glimi-se  of  Miss  Tox's  Dwellino-placb  ; 

ALSO  OF  THE  STATE    OF  MlBS  Toi's  AFFECTIONS  .  SO 

VIIL    Paul's  further  Prooress,  Growth,  and  Character  .  SS 

IX.    In  WHICH  THB  Wooden  Midshipman  gets  into  Troiblb  117 

X.       CONTAININO  the   SeQUEL  OF  THE  MiDSHIPUAn's  DiBASTES  1.12 

XI.     Paul's  Introduction  TO  A  New  ScEHB       ....  144 

Xtl.    Padl's  Education IGO 

Xllt.     SiiirpiNO  Intbllioence  AND  Ofpicb  BasiNGM  .     '   .        .  ITn 
XIV.    Paul  orows  uorb  and  more  Old-fabiiionbd.  and  oora 

Hour  FOR  the  IIolidats in2 

XV.    Amazino  Artfulness  of  Capthic  Cdttlb,  and  a  wbw 

Pubscit  FOR  Walter  Gat SIS 

XVL     What  tbb  Waves  were  always  satiho        .        .        .  2M 
XVII.    Captain  Cuttle  dobs  a  little  Busikbsb  for  tub  Youno 

People 240 

XVIIL    Father  and  Dauohtbr isa 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


CONTENTS. 


X.  WlLTSB  aOES  iWAT 

^.  Mb.  Dohbbv  gobs  ui-on  *  Jodbhbt        .... 

I.  New  Faceb 

1.  A  TBIFLE  OV  MANAaSHEKT  BT  MR.  CaBEBB  THE  MaNAOSR 

I.  Florence  aoyjAmr,  and  thb  Midbhipuan  MrsTEBioua  . 


The  Studt  of  a  Lovino  Hkabt 

,    Stbanoe  News  of  Umcle  Sol 

Shadows  of  the  Past  and  Futdhb       .... 

Dbbfeb  ShadOwB 398 

Alterations 

Tub  Opentho  ov  the  Eveb  of  Msb.  Ciiick 

Tub  Intekval  Befobb  the  Makriaoe    .... 


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DOMBEY  AN 


CHAPTER  I. 


DOMBEY  AND  S 


DoHBEY  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up 
warm  in  a  little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on  a 
low  settee  immediately  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to 
it,  as  if  his  constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a 
mufBn,  and  it  wasessential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he 
was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son 
about  eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather 
bald,  rather  red,  and  though  a  handsome,  well-made 
man,  too  stern  and  pompous  in  appearance,  to  be  pre- 
possessing. Son  was  very  bald.  andTvery  red,  and  though 
(of  course)  an  undeniably  fine  infant,  somewhat  crushed 
and  spotty  in  his  general  effect  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of 
Dombey,  Time  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some  marks, 
as  on  a  tree  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time — re- 
morseless twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their 
human  forests,  notching  as  they  go— wiiile  the  counte- 
nance of  Son  was  crossed  and  recrossed  with  a  thousand 
little  creases,  which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take 
delight  in  smoothing  out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat 

Eart  of  his  scythe  as  a  preparation  of  the  surface  for 
is  deeper  operations. 

Dombey,  exulting  in  the  long-Iooked-f  or  event,  jingled 
a'nd  jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  depended 
from  below  his  trim  blue  coat,  whereof  the  buttons  spark- 
led phosphorescently  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the  distant 
fire.     Son,  with  his  little  fists  curled  i^  bxvA.  ^twOwsA-, 


a  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

seemed,  in  his  feeble  way,  to  be  squaring  at  existence 
for  having  come-upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

"  The  liouse  will  once  again,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Dombey  and 
Son;  Dom-bey  and  Son!" 

The  words  had  such  a  eofteuing  influence  that  he  ap- 
pended a  tenn  of  endearment  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  name 
(though  not  without  some  hesitation,  as  being  a  man  but 
little  used  to  that  form  of  address):  and  said,  "Mrs. 
Dombey,  my — my  dear." 

A  transient  flush  of  faint  surprise  overspread  the  sick 
lady's  face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  towards  him. 

"  He  will  be  christened  Paul,  my — Mrs.  Dombey — of 
course." 

She  feebly  echoed,  "  Of  course,"  or  rather  expressed  it 
by  the  motion  of  her  lips,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

"His  father's  name,  Mrs.  Dombey,  aiid  his  grand- 
father's! I  wish  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day!" 
And  again  he  said  "Dom-bey  and  Sou,"  in  exactly  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's life.  Tiie  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to 
trade  in,and  the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give  them 
light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships; 
rainbows  gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather;  winds  blew 
for  or  against  their  entprprises;  stars  and  planets  circled 
in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a  system  of  which 
they  were  the  centre.  Common  abbreviations  took  new 
meanings  in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole  reference  to  them. 
A.  D.  had  no  concern  with  anno  Domini,  but  stood  for 
anno  Dombei — and  son. 

He  had  risen,  as  his  father  had  before  him,  in  the  course 
of  life  and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  for  nearly 
twenty  years  had  been  the  sole  representative  of  the  firm. 
Of  those  years  he  had  been  married,  ten — married,  as 
some  said,  to  a  lady  with  no  heart  to  give  him;  whose 
happiness  was  in  the  past,  and  who  was  content  to  bind 
her  Droken  spirit  to  the  dutiful  and  meek  endurance  of 
the  present.  Such  idle  talk  was  little  likely  to  reach  the 
ears  of  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  it  nearly  concerned ;  and  prob- 
ably no  one  in  the  world  would  have  received  it  with 
sucn  utter  incredulity  as  he,  if  it  had  reached  him. 
Dombey  and  Sou  had  often  dealt  in  hides,  but  never  in 
hearts.    They  left  that  fancy  ware  to  boys  and  girls,  and 


DOMEEY  AND  SON.  3 

boarding-schoolB  and  books.  *  Mr.  Dombey  would  have 
reasonedr  That  a  matrimonial  alliance  with  himself 
must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  gratifying  and  honor- 
able to  any  woman  of  common  sense.  That  the  hope  of 
giving  birth  to  a  new  partner  in  such  a  house  could  not 
fail  to  awaken  a  glorious  and  stirring  ambition  in  the 
breast  of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex.  That  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey had  entered  on  that  social  contract  of  matrimony: 
almost  necessarily  part  of  a  genteel  and  wealthy  station, 
even  without  reference  to  the  perpetuation  of  family 
firms:  with  ber  eyes  fully  open  to  these  advantages. 
That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  had  daily  practical  knowledge 
of  his  position  in  society.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  al- 
ways sat  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and  done  the  honors 
of  his  house  in  a  remarkably  lady -like  and  becoming 
manner.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  have  been  happy. 
That  she  couldn't  help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he 
would  have  allowed.  With  only  one;  but  that  one  cer- 
tainly involving  much.  They  had  been  married  ten 
years,  and  untifthis  present  day  on  which  Mr,  Dombey 
sat  jingling  and  jingling  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  in 
the  great  arm-chair  by  the  side  of  his  bed,  had  had  no 
issue. 

— To  speak  of;  none  worth  mentioning.  There  had 
been  a  girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  child,  wlio  had 
stolen  into  the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now^  crouching 
timidly,  in  a  corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother's 
face.  But  what  was  a  girl  to  Dombey  and  8onI  In  the . 
capital  of  the  House's  name  and  dignity,  such  a  child 
was  merely  a  piece  of  base  coin  that  couldn't  be  invested 
— a  bad  boy — nothing  more. 

Mr.  Dombey's  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this 
moment.-  however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a  drop  or 
two  of  its  contents,  even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the 
by-path  of  hie  little  daughter. 

So  he  said,  "  Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your 
pretty  brother,  if  you  like,  I  dare  say.  Don't  touch 
nim!" 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff 
white  cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and 
a  very  loud-ticking  watch,  embodied  ber  idea  of  a 
father:  but  her  eyes  returned  to  her  mother's  face  im- 
mediately, and  she  neither  mo\i>A  wot  a.\\?,vj'e,\wi\. 


i  DOMBEV  AKD  SON. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  Tiad  opened  her  eyes  and  Been 
the  child;  and  the  child  had  run  towards  her;  and, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her 
embrace,  had  clung  about  her  with  a  desperate  aflfection 
very  much  at  variance  with  her  years. 

"  Oh  Lord  bless  me! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  testily. 
"A  venf  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I  am 
sure.     I  had  better  ask  Doctor  Peps  if  he'll  have  the 

foodness  to  step  up-stairs  again  perhaps.  I'll  go  down. 
11  go  down.  I  needn't  beg  you,"  he  added,  pausing  for 
a  moment  at  the  settee  before  the  fire,  "  to  take  particu- 
lar care  of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs. " 

"  Blockitt,  sir?"  suggested  the  nurse,  a  simpering 
piece  of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state 
her  name  as  a  fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a  mild  sug- 
gestion, 

"  Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt." 

"  No,  sir,  indeed.  I  remember  when  Miss  Elorence 
was  born — " 

"Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the 
basket  bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the 
same  time.  "Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  hut  this 
is  another  matter.  This  young  gentleman  has  to  ac- 
complish a  destiny.  A  destiny,  little  fellow!"  Ashe 
thus  apostrophised  the  infant  he  raised  one  of  his  hands 
to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it;  then,  seeming  to  fear  that  the 
action  involved  some  compromise  of  nis  dignity  went, 
awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  court  physicians,  and 
a  man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  in- 
crease of  great  families,  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
drawing-room  with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  un- 
speakable admiration  of  the  family  surgeon,  who  had 
regularly  puffed  th^e  case  for  the  last  six  weeks,  among 
all  his  patients,  friends,  and  acquaintances,  as  one  to 
which  he  was  in  hourly  expectation  day  and  night  of 
being  summoned  in  conjunction  with  Doctor  Parker 
Peps. 

"Well  sir,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  in  a  round,  deep, 
sonorous  voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  the 
knocker;  "  do  you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all 
roused  by  your  visit?  " 

"  Stimulated  as  it  were  ?  "  said  the  family  practitioner 
faintly  :  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  doctor,  as  much 


.  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  5 

as  to  say  "  Excuse  my  putting;  in  a  word,  but  this  is  a 
valuable  connexion." 

Mr,  Dombey  was  quite  discomfited  by  the  question. 
He  had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient  that  he  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  answer  it.  He  said  that  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  him  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk 
up-stairs  again. 

"Good!  We  must  not  disg^uise  from  you,  sir,"  said 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "  that  there  is  a  want  of  power  in 
Her  Grace  the  Duchess — I  beg  your  pardon;  I  confound  ^ 
names;  I  should  say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  Tliere  is  a 
certain  degree  of  languor,  and  a  general  absence  of 
elasticity,  which  we  would  rather — not — " 

"  See,"  interposed  the  family  practitioner  with  an- 
other inclination  of  the  head. 

"Quite  BO,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "which  we 
would  rather  not  see.  It  would  appear  that  the  system 
of  Lady  Cankahy — excuse  me:  I  should  say  of  Mrs. 
Dombey:  I  confuse  the  names  of  cases — " 

"So  very  numerous,"  murmured  the  family  practi- 
tioner— "  can't  be  expected  I'm  sure — quite  wonderful  if 
otherwise — Doctor  Parker  Peps's  west-end  practice — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "quite  so.  It  would 
appear,  I  was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient 
has  sustained  a  shock  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to 
rally  by  a  gr^t  and  strong—" 

"And  vigorous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner, 

"  Quite  so,"  assented  the  doctor — "  and  vigorous 
effort.  Mr.  Pilkins  here,  who  from  his  position  of  med- 
ical adviser  in  this  family— no  one  better  qualified  to  fill 
that  position,  I  am  sure.'' 

"Oh I"  murmured  the  family  practitioner.  "  'Praise 
from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley!'" 

"You  are  good  enough,"  returned  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  "to  say  so.  Mr.  Pilkins  who,  from  his  position, 
is  best  acquainted  with  the  patient's  constitution  in  its 
normal  state  (an  acquaintance  very  valuable  to  uh  in 
forming  our  opinions  on  these  occasions),  is  of  opinion 
jvith  me,  that  Nature  must  he  called  upon  to  make  a 
vigorous  effort  in  this  instance;  and  that  if  our  interest- 
ing friend  the  Countess  of  Dombey— I  beg  your  pardon! 
Mrs.  Dombey— should  not  be — 

"Able,"  said  the  family  practitioner. 

"To    make   that   effort   BuccesrfMWy "    aaivi.  \>wSRi''- 


a  '     DOMBEY  AND  SON. . 

Parker  Peps,  "then  a  crisis  might  arise,  which  wo 
should  botn  sincerely  deplore," 

With  tliat,  they  stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at 
the  ground.  Then,  on  the  motion — made  in  dumb  show 
— of  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  they  went  up-stairs; the  family 
practitioner  opening  the  room  door  for  that  distin- 
guished professional,  and  following  him  out  with  most 
obsequious  politeness. 

To  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way 
,  aflfected  by  this  intelligence  would  be  to  do  him  an  in- 

{'ustice.  He  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly 
e  said  that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked;  but  he 
certainly  had  a  sense  within  him  that  if  his  wife  should 
sicken  and  decay  he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he 
would  find  a  something  gone  from  among  his  plate  and 
furniture,  and  other  household  possessions,  which  was 
well  worth  the  having,  and  could  not  be  lost  without 
sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a  cool,  husiness- 
like,  gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no  douht. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted. 
first  by  the  rustling  of  garments  on  the  staircase,  and 
then  by  the  sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a  lady 
rather  past  the  middle  age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed 
in  a  very  juvenile  manner,  particularly  as  to  the  tight- 
ness of  her  boddice,  who,  running  up  to  him  with  a  kind 
of  screw  in  her  face  and  carriage,  exp|essive  of  sup- 
pressed emotion,  flung  her  arms  roundTiis  neck,  and 
said  in  a  choking  voice. 

"  My  dear  Paul!    He's  quite  a  Dombey! " 

"  "W  ell,  well!  ■'  returned  her  brother— for  Mr.  Dombev 
was  her  brother — "  I  think  he  is  like  the  family.  Don'^t 
agitate  yourself,  Louisa." 

'•  it's  very  foolish  of  me,"  said  Louisa,  sitting  down, 
and  taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "'hut  he's— 
he's  such  a  perfect  Dombey!  /never  saw  anything  like 
it  in  my  life!  " 

"But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.     "  How  is  Fanny?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  Louisa,  "  it's  nothing  what- 
ever. Take  my  word,  it's  nothing  whatever.  There  is 
exhaustion,  certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I  under- 
went myself,  either  with  Gt^orge  or  Frederick.  An 
effort  is  necessary.  Tliat's  all.  If  dear  Fanny  were  a 
Domhey !— But  I  dare  say  she'll  make  it;  I  have  no  doubt 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7 

Bhe'll  make  it.  Knowing  it  to  be  required  of  her,  as  a 
duty,  of  course  she'U  make  it.  My  dear  Paul,  it's  very 
weak  and  silly  of  me,  I  know,  to  be  so  trembly  and 
shaky  from  head  to  foot;  but  I  am  so  very  queer  that  I 
must  ask  you  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  morsel  of  that 
cake.  I  tliought  I  should  have  fallen  out  of  the  stair- 
case window  as  I  came  down  from  seeing  dear  Fanny, 
and  that  tiddy  ickle  sing. "  These  last  works  originated 
in  a  sudden  vived  reminiscence  of  the  baby. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Chick,"  said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside, 
"  how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend?" 

"My  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  "it's  Miss  Tox.  The  kindest  crea- 
ture! I  never  could  have  got  here  without  her!  Miss 
Tox,  mv  brother  Mr.  Dombey.  Paul,  my  dear,  my  very 
particular  friend  Miss  Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented  was  a  long  lean     , 
figure,  wearing  sucn  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to 
have  been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  "fast  colors'" 
originally,  and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out. 
But  for  this  she  might  have  been  descril>ed  as  the  very 

ftink  of  general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a 
ong  habit  of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that 
was  said  in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the  speaJcers  as 
if  she  were  mentally  engaged  in  taking  off  impressions 
of  their  images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the 
same  but  with  life,  her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one 
side.  Her  hands  had  contracted  a  spasmodic  habit  of 
raising  themselves  of  their  own  accord  as  in  involuntary 
admiration.  Her  eyes  were  liable  to  a  similar  affection. 
She  had  the  softest  voice  that  ever  was  heard;  and  her 
nose,  stupendously  aquiline,  had  a  little  knob  in  the 
very  centre  or  keystone  of  the  bridge,  whence  it  tended 
downwards  towards  her  face,  as  in  an  invincible  deter- 
mination never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox's  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  pood, 
had  a  certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness. 
She  was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in 
her  bonnets  and  caps.  Strange  grasses  were  sometimes 
perceived  in  her  hair;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  curi- 
ous, of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers,  wristbands,  and 
other  gossamer  articles — indeed  of  everything,  a\\6'«o^'?> 
which  had  two  eotjs  to  it  intended  toumVtt — ^aX  Mttfc 


8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

two  ends  were  never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn't  quite 
meet  without  a  struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for 
winter  wear,  as  tippets,  boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood 
up  on  end  in  a  riimpant  manner,  and  were  not  at  all 
sleek.  She  was  mucn  given  to  the  carrying  about  of 
small  bags  with  snaps  to  them,  that  went  off  like  little 
pistols  when  they  were  shut  up;  and,  when  full-dressed, 
she  wore  round  her  neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  repre- 
senting a  fishy  old  eye,  with  no  approach  to  speculation 
in  it.  These  and  other  appearances  of  a  similar  nature 
had  served  to  propagate  the  opinion  that  Miss  Tox  was 
a  lady  of  what  is  called  a  limited  independence,  which 
she  turned  to  the  best  account.  Possibly  her  mincing 
gait  encouraged  the  belief,  and  suggestecf  that  her  clip- 
ping a  step  of  ordinary  compass  into  two  or  three, 
originated  in  her  habit  of  maicing  the  most  of  every- 
thing. 

"  lam  sure,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  prodigious  curtsey, 
"  that  to  have  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  is  a  distinction  which  I  have  long  sought,  but  very 
little  expected  at  the  present  moment.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Chick— may  I  say  Louisa!" 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox's  hand  in  hers,  rested  the 
foot  of  her  wine-glass  upon  it,  repressed  a  tear,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice  "Bless  you  I" 

"  My  dear  Louisa  then,'  said  Miss  Tox,  "my  sweet 
friend,  how  are  you  now?" 

"Better,"  Mrs,  Chick  returned.  "Take  some  wine. 
You  have  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I  have  been,  and 
must  want  it,  I  am  sure.'' 

Mr.  Dombey  of  course  officiated. 

"Miss  Tox,  Paul,"  pursued  Mrs,  Chick,  still  retaining 
her  hand,  "knowing  how  much  I  have  been  interested 
in  the  anticipation  of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been 
working  at  a  little  gift  for  Fanny,  which  I  promised  to 
present.  It  is  only  a  pincushion  for  the  toilette  table, 
Paul,  but  I  do  say,  and  will  say,  and  must  say,  that 
Miss  Tox  has  very  prettily  adapted  the  sentiment  to  the 
occasion.  I  call  '  Welcome  little  Dombey '  poetry,  my- 
self! " 

"Is  that  the  device?"  inquired  her  brother. 

"That  is  the  device."  returned  Louisa. 

"  But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa," 
said  Miss  Tox  in  a  tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  9 

"that  nothinfr  but  the — I  have  some  difficulty  in  ex- 

Eressing  myself — the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would 
ave  induced  me  to  take  bo  great  a  liberty:  '  Welcome, 
Master  Dombey,'  would  have  been  much  more  congenial 
to  my  feelings,  as  I  am  sure  you  know.  But  the  un- 
certainty attendant  on  angelic  strangers,  will,  I  hope, 
excuse  what  must  otherwise  appear  an  unwarrant- 
able familiarity."  Miss  Tox  made  a  graceful  bend  as 
she  spoke,  in  favor  of  Mr.  Dombev,  which  that  gentle- 
man graciously  acknowledged.  Even  the  sort  of  recog- 
nition of  Dombey  and  Son,  conveyed  in  the  foregoing 
conversation,  was  so  palatable  to  him  that  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Chick — though  he  affected  to  consider  her  a  weak 
good-natured  person — had  perhaps  more  influence  over 
nim  than  anybody  else. 

"  Weill "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "after 
this,  I  forgive  Fanny  everything!" 

It  was  a  declaration  in  a  Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs, 
Chick  felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  any- 
thing particular  to  forgive  in  her  sister-in-law.  nor  in- 
deea  anything  at  all,  except  her  having  married  her 
brother — in  itself  a  species  of  audacity^and  hor  hav- 
ing, in  the  course  of  events,  given  birth  to  a  girl  instead 
of  a  boy:  which,  as  Mrs.  Chick  had  frequently  observed, 
was  not  quite  what  she  had  expected  of  her,  and  was 
not  a  pleasant  return  for  all  the  attention  and  distinc- 
tion she  had  met  with. 

Mr.  Dombey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room 
at  this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together. 
Miss  Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic, 

"  I  knew  you  would  admire  my  brother,  I  told  you 
so  beforehand,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox's  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

"And  as  to  his  property,  my  deart" 

"  Ah! "  said  Miss  Tox,  with  deep  feeling. 

"  Im— mense!" 

"But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa!"  said  Miss 
Tox.  "His  presence!  His  dignity!  No  portrait  that 
I  have  ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half  so  replete 
with  those  qualities.  Something  so  stately,  you  know: 
so  uncompromising:  so  very  wide  across  the  chest:  so 
upright!  A  pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love,  and 
nothmg  short  of  it!"  said  Miss  Tox,  "tftaX^a  -wV^X,  \ 
should  designate  him." 


10  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Why,  my  dear  Paul!"  exclaimed  hft  sister,  as  he 
returned,  "  you  look  quite  pale!  There's  nothing  the 
matter?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  that 
Fanny — " 

"  Now,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister  rising, 
"don't  believe  it.  If  you  have  any  reliance  on  my 
experience,  Paul,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is 
nothing  wanting  but  an  effort  on  Fanny's  part.  And 
that  effort,"  »he  continued,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and 
adjusting -her  cap  and  gloves,  in  a  busineas-Iike  man- 
ner, "she  must  be  encouraged,  and  really,  if  necessary, 
urge<l  to  make.  Now,  my  dear  Paul,  come  up-stairs 
with  me." 

Mr.  Dombey.  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced 
by  his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had 
really  faith  in  her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling 
matron,  acquiesced:  and  followed  her,  at  once,  to  the 
sick  chamber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasping 
her  little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung  close 
about  her,  with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and  never 
raised  her  head  or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her 
mother's  face,  or  looked  on  those  who  stood  around,  or 
spoke,  or  moved,  or  shed  a  tear. 

"Restless  without  the  little  girl;"  the  doctor  whis- 
pered Mr.  Dombey.  "  We  found  it  best  to  have  her  in 
again." 

There  was  such  a  solemn  stillness  round  the  bed;  and 
the  two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  im- 

Eassive  form  with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little 
ope  that  Mrs.  Chick  was  for  the  moment  diverted 
from  her  purpose.  But  presently  summoning  courage, 
and  what  she  called  presence  of  mind,  she  sat  down  l>y 
the  be<iside,  and  saitl  in  the  low  precise  tone  of  one  who 
endeavore  to  awaken  a  sleeper: 

"Fanny!  Fanny!"   . 

There  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  ticking  of 
Mr.  Dombey  8  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch, 
which  seemed  in  the  silence  to  be  running  a  race. 

"  Fanny,  my  dear."  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  assumed 
lightness.  "  here "s  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't 
you  speak  to  him?  They  want  to  lay  your  Httle  boy — 
the  baby,  Fanny,  you  know;  you  have  nardly  seen  him 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  11 

yet,  I  think — in  bed;  but  they  can't  till  you  rouse  your- 
Bi'lf  a  little.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  roused  your- 
Bi'lf  a  little?    Eh?" 

She  bent  her  ear  to  the  bed,  and  listened:  at  tlie  same 
tinje  looking  round  at  the  bystanders,  and  holding  up 
her  finger, 

"  Eh?  "  she  repeated,  "  what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny? 
I  didn't  hear  you." 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch 
and  Dr.  Parker  Peps's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

"Now,  really  Fanny  my  dear,"  said  the  sister-in-law, 
altering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  ami 
more  earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  '•  I  shall  have  to  be 
quite  cross  with  you,  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It's 
necessary  for  you  to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very 
great  and  painful  effort  which  you  are  not  disposed  to 
make;  but  this  is  a  world  of  effort  you  know,  Fanny , 
and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so  much  depends 
upon  us.  Come!  Try!  I  must  really  scold  you  if  you 
don't! " 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  fu- 
rious. The  watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  trip  each 
other  up. 

"Fanny!"  said  Louisa,  glancing  round,  with  a  gather- 
ing alarm.  "  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes 
to  show  me  that  you  hear  and  understand  me;  will  you? 
Good  Heaven,  gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done!" 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  look  across 
the  bed;  and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered 
in  the  child's  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport 
of  his  whisper,  the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly 
colorless  face,  and  deep  dark  eyes  towards  nim;  but 
without  loosening  her  hold  in  the  least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

"  Mama!     said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  love<l,  awakened 
some  show  of  consciousness,  even  at  tliat  ebb.  For 
a  moment,  the  closed  eye-lids  trembled,  and  the  nos- 
tril quivered,  and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  was 
seen. 

"Mama!"  cried  the  child  sobbing  aloud.  "Oh  dear 
mama!  oh  dear  mama!" 

The  doctor  gently  brushed  the  scatteTeA  t\tv^ft\&  ^S. 
Jie  child  aside  from  the  face  and  m.o\it\v  ol  We  ■nvQ'Cft&t. 


la  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Alas  how  caim  they  lay  there;  how  little  breath  there 
was  to  stir  theral 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her 
arms,  the  mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  un- 
known sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER   II. 

IN  WHICH  TIMELT  PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMER- 
GENCY THAT  WILL  SOMETIMES  ARISE  IN  THE  BEST- 
REGULATED    FAMILIES. 

"  I  SHALL  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "on  having  said,  when  I  little  thought 
what  was  in  store  for  us, — really  as  if  I  was  inspired 
by  something,— that  I  forgave  poor  dear  Fanny  every- 
thing. Whatever  happens,  that  must  always  he  a  com- 
fort to  me!" 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the 
drawing-room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the 
inspection  of  the  mantua-makers  up-stairs,  who  were 
busy  on  the  family  mourning.  She  delivered  it  for  the 
behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  a  stout  bald  gentleman, 
with  a  very  large  face,  and  his  hands  continually  in  his 
pockets,  and  who  had  a  tendency  in  his  nature  to 
whistle  and  hum  "tunes  which,  sensible  of  the  inde- 
corum of  such  sounds  in  a  house  of  grief,  he  was  at 
some  pains  to  repress  at  present. 

"Don't  you  over-exert  yourself.  Loo,"  said  Mr,  Chick, 
"or  you'll  he  laid  up  with  spasms,  I  see.  Right  tol  loor 
rul!  Bless  my  soul,  I  forgot!  We're  here  one  day  and 
gone  the  next!" 

Mi"s.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a  glance  of  re- 
proof, and  then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  dis- 
course, 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "I  hope  this  heart-rending 
occurrence  will  be  a  warning  to  all  of  us  to  accustom 
ourselves  to  rouse  ourselves  and  to  make  efforts  in  time 
where  they're  required  of  us.  There's  a  moral  in  every- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  13 

thing,  if  we  would  only  avail  ourselves  of  it.  It  will 
be  our  own  faults  if  we  lose  sight  of  this  one." 

Mr,  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  which  ensued  on 
this  remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of 
"A  cobbler  there  was;"  and  checking  himself,  in  some 
confusion,  observed  that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own 
faults  if  we  didn't  improve  such  melancholy  occasions 
as  the  present. 

"Which  might  be  better  improved,  I  should  think, 
Mr.  C,"  retorted  his  helpmate,  after  a  short  pause, 
"than  by  the  introduction,  either  of  the  college  horn- 
pipe, or  the  equally  unmeaning  and  unfeeling  remark 
of  rump-te-iddity,  bow-wow-wow!" — which  Mr.  Chick 
had  indeed  indulged  in,  under  his  breath,  and  which 
Mrs.  Chick  repeated  in  a  tone  of  withering  scorn. 

"Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick. 

"Nonsense!  Habit!"  returned  his  wife.  "If  you're 
a  rational  being,  don't  make  such  ridiculous  excuses. 
Habit!  If  I  was  to  get  a  habit  (as  you  call  it)  of  walk- 
ing on  the  ceiling,  like  the  fiies,  I  should  hear  enough  of 
it,  I  dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a  habit  might  be  at- 
tended with  some  degree  of  notoriety  that  Mr.  Chick 
didn't  venture  to  dispute  the  position. 

"  How's  the  baby,  Loo?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick:  to  change 
the  subject. 

"What  baby  do  you  mean?"  answered  Mrs.  Chick. 
"  I  am  sure  the  morning  I  have  had,  with  that  dining- 
room  down-stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  their 
senses  would  believe." 

"One  mass  of  babies!"  repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring 
with  an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

"It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  "  that  poor  dear  Fanny  being  no  more,  it  becomes 
necessary  to  provide  a  nurse." 

"Oh  I  Ah ! "  said  Mr.  Chick.  "  Toor-rui — such  is  life, 
I  mean.    I  hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

"Indeed  I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chick;  "nor  likely  to 
he,  so  far  as  I  can  see.    Meanwhile,  of  course,  the  child 

"Going  to  the  very  deuce,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  thought- 
fully, "to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  him- 
self, by  the  iadignation  expressed  in  'it'iTs,.  CVvvOe^a  tQ'Wv- 


14  DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

tenance  at  the  idea  of  a  Dombey  going  there;  and 
thinking  to  atone  for  his  misconduct  by  a  Bright  sug- 
gestion, he  added: 

"Couldn't  something  temporary  be  done  with  a  tea- 
pot?" 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to  a 
close,  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  After 
looking  at  him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resignation, 
Mrs.  Chick  walked  majestically  to  the  window  and 
peeped  through  the  blind,  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding  that  his  destiny  was,  for  the 
time,  against  him,  said  no  more,  and  walked  off.  But 
it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick.  He  was  often 
in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times  punished 
Louisa  roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings  they 
were,  upon  the  whole,  a  well-matched,  fairly  balanced, 
give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been,  generally 
speaking,  very  difficult  to  have  betted  on  the  winner. 
Often  when  Mr.  Chick  seemed  beaten,  he  would  sud- 
denly make  a  start,  turn  the  tables,  clatter  them  about 
the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before  him.  Being 
liable  himself  to  similar  unlooked-for  checks  from  Mrs. 
Chick,  their  little  contests  usually  possessed  a  character 
of  uncertainty  that  was  very  animating.   . 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  no*  alluded 
to,  and  came  running  into  the  room  in  a  breathless  con- 
dition. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "is  the  vacancy 
still  unsupplied?  " 

"You  good  soul,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Then,  my  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  hope 
and  believe — but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  Til  introduce 
the  party." 

Running  down-stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up, 
Miss  Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and 
soon  returned  with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word,  not  in 
its  legal  or  nnsiness  acceptation,  when  it  merely  ex- 
presses an  individual,  but  as  a  noun  of  multitude,  or 
signifying  many;  for  Miss  Tox  escorted  aplump  rosy- 
cheeked  wholesome  apple-faced  young  woman,  with  an 
infant  in  her  arms;  a  younger  woman  not  so  plump, 
but  apple-faced  also,  who  leu  a  plump  and  apple-faced 
child  in  each  hand;  another  plump  andalso  apple-faced 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  15 

boy  who  walked  by  himself;  and  finally,  a  plump  and 
apple-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms  another  plump 
and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor, 
and  admonished  in  a  husky  whisper,  to  "  kitch  hold  of 
his  brother  Johnny." 

"My  dear  Louiaa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "knowing  your 
great  anxiety,  and  wishing  to  relieve  it,  I  posted  off  my- 
self to  the  Queen  Charlotte's  Royal  Married  Females, 
which  you  had  forgot,  and  put  the  question.  Was  there 
anybody  there  that  they  thought  would  suit?  No,  they 
said,  there  was  not.  When  they  gave  me  that  answer, 
I  do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  almost  driven  to  de- 
spair on  your  account.  But  it  did  so  happen,  that  one 
of  the  Royal  Married  Females,  hearing  the  inquiry,  re- 
minded the  matron  of  another  who  had  gone  to  her  own 
home,  and  who,  she  said,  would  in  all  likelihood  he 
more  satisfactory.  The  moment  I  lieard  this,  and  had 
it  corroborated  by  the  matron— excellent  references  and 
unimpeachable  character — I  Jgot  the  address,  ray  dear, 
and  posted  off  ^ain." 

"Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are!  " said  Louisa. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  Don"t  say  so.  Ar- 
riving at  the  house  {the  cleanest  place,  my  dear!  You 
might  eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor),  I  found  the  whoh; 
family  sitting  at  table;  and  feeling  that  no  account  of 
them  could  be  half  so  comfortable  to  you  and  Mr. 
Dombey  as  the  sight  of  them  all  together,  I  brought 
them  all  away.  This  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Tox.  pomt- 
ing  out  the  apple-faced  man,  "  is  the  father.  Will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  come  a  little  forward,  sir?" 

The  apple-faced  man,  having  sheepishly  complied 
with  this  request,  stood  chuckling  and  grinning  in  a 
front  row. 

"This  is  his  wife,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  singling 
out  the  young  woman  with  tlie  baby.  "  How  do  you  do, 
Polly?" 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterously.  Miss  Tox 
had  made  the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, whom  she  hadn't  seen  for  a  fortnight  or  so, 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "The  other 
young  woman  is  her  unmarried  sister  who  lives  with 
them,  and  would  take  care  of  her  chUdreTi.  Hw  ■waxsw:-'*, 
Jemima,    How  do  you  do,  JemimaV 


^uo  oiiste'r,  I  believe,"  said  Miss; 
id  upon  the  family,  "  is  not  constituti 

-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,  " 

ur  pardon,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  did  you 
1,"  ne  repeated. 

'said  Miss  Tox.  "Yes!  quite  true.  1 1 
ttte  creature,  in  his  mother's  absence,  sm 
t  iron.  You're  quite  right,  sir.  You  w* 
.ve  the  goodness  to  inform  me,  when  we  t 
door,  that  you  were  by  trade,  a — " 
said  the  man. 

r! "  said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast, 
said  the  man,     "  Steam  engine." 
fes!"  returned  Miss  Tox,  looking  though 
and  seemiug  still  to  have  but  a  very  in 
rstanding  of  iiis  meaning. 
do  you  like  it,  sir?" 
turn?"  said  the  man. 
ilied  Miss  Tox.     "  Yourtrade." 
well,  mum.    The  ashes  sometimes  gets  i 
Qg  his  chest:  "and  makes  a  man  spea 
)  present  time.    But  it  is  ashes,  mum,  n< 

med  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  th 
d  a  difficulty  in  pursmng  th«  "^' 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  1? 

and  heavier  than  its  ordinary  load;  but  it  was  more  a 
sense  of  the  child's  loss  than  his  own,  awakening  within 
him  an  almost  angry  sorrow.  That  the  life  and  pro- 
gress on  which  he  built  such  hopes  should  be  endan- 
gered in  the  outset  by  so  mean  a  want,  that  Dombey 
and  Son  should  be  tottering  for  a  nurse,  was  a  sore 
humiliation.  And  yet,  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  he 
viewed  with  so  much  bitterness  the  thought  of  being  de- 
pendent for  the  very  first  step  towards  the  accomplieh- 
ment  of  his  soul's  desire  on  anired  serving- woman  who 
would  be  to  the  child,  for  the  time,  all  that  even  his 
alliance  could  have  made  his  own  wife,  that  in  every 
new  rejection  of  a  candidate  he  felt  a  secret  pleasure. 
The  time  had  now  come,  however,  when  he  could  no 
longer  be  divided  between  those  two  sets  of  feelings. 
The  less  so,  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  flaw  in  the  title  of 
Polly  Toodle  after  his  sister  had  set  it  forth,  with  many 
commendations  on  the  indefatigable  friendship  of  Miss 
Tox. 

"These  children  look  healthy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "But 
to  think  of  their-  some  day  claiming  a  sort  of  relation- 
ship to  Paul!  Take  them  away,  Louisa!  Let  me  see  this 
woman  and  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodles,  and 
presently  returned  with  that  tougher  couple  whose  pres- 
ence her  brother  had  commanded. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  round 
in  his  easy-chair,  as  one  piece,  and, not  as  aman  with 
«  limbs  and  joints,  "  I  understand  you  are  poor,  and  wish 
to  earn  money  by  nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who 
has  been  so  prematurely  deprived  of  what  can  never  be 
replaced.  I  have  no  objection  to  your  adding  to  the 
comforts  of  your  family  by  that  means.  So  far  as  I  can 
tell,  you  seem  to  be  a  deserving  object.  But  I  must  im- 
pose one  or  two  conditions  on  you,  before  you  enter  my 
house  in  that  capacity.  While  you  are  here,  I  must 
stipulate  that  you  are  always  known  as — say  as  Bich- 
aras — an  ordinary  name  and  convenient.  Have  you  any 
objection  to  be  known  as  Richards?  You  had  better 
consult  your  husband." 

As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and 
continually  draw  his  right  hand  across  his  mouth,  moist- 
ening the  palm.  Mrs.  Toodle  after  nud^itvy^  \\rav V« vjsi  «v 
thrice  in  vain,  dropped  a  curtsey  ani  te^W^^ "'  *Ctia.^">^'«- 


19  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

haps  if  she  was  to  be  called  out  of  her  name,  it  would 
be  considered  in  the  wages." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bombay.  "I  desire  to 
make  it  a  question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Rich- 
ards, if  you  nurse  my  bereaved  child,  I  wish  you  to 
remember  this  always.  You  will  receive  a  liberal 
stipend  in  return  for  the  discharge  of  certain  duties,  in 
the  performance  of  which  I  wish  you  to  see  as  little  of 
your  family  a«  possible.  When  those  duties  cease  to  be 
recjuired  and  rt^ndered,  and  the  stipend  ceases  to  be 
paid,  there  is  an  end  of  all  relations  between  us.  Do 
you  understand  me?" 

Mrs,  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it;  and  as  to 
Toodle  himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  whatever, 
that  he  was  all  abroad. 

"  You  have  children  of  your  own,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  It  is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become 
attached  to  my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become  at- 
tached to  you.  I  don't  expect  or  desire  anything  of  the 
kind.  Quite  the  reverse.  When  you  go  away  from 
here,  you  will  have  concluded  what  is  a  mere  matter  of 
bargam  and  sale,  hiring  and  letting:  and  will  stay  away. 
The  child  will  cease  to  remember  you;  and  you  will 
cease,  if  you  please,  to  remember  the  child." 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a  little  more  color  in  her  cheeks 
than  she  had  had  before,  said  she  hoped  she  knew 
her  place, 

"  I  hope  you  do,  Richards,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  it  verv  well.     Indeed  it  is  so  • 

K"  tin  and  obvious  that  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise, 
uisa.  my  dear,  arrange  with  Ricliariis  about  money, 
and  let  her  have  it  when  and  how  she  pleases.  Mr. 
what's-y our- name,  a  word  with  you,  if  you  please!" 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  following 
his  wife  out  of  the  room.  Toodle  returned  and  con- 
fronted Mr.  Dombey  alone.  He  was  a  strong,  loose, 
round-shouldered,  shuffling,  shaggy  fellow,  on  whom 
his  clothes  sat  negligently:  with  a  good  deal  of  hair  and 
whisker,  deepened  in  its  natural  tint,  perhaps,  by  smoke 
and  coal-dust:  hard  knotty  hands:  and  a  square  fore- 
head, as  coarse  in  grain  as  the  bark  of  an  oak.  A 
thorough  contrast  in  all  respects  to  Mr.  Dombey.  who 
was  one  of  those  close-shaved,  close-cut  monied  gentle- 
men who  are  glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank  notes,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lO 

who  seem  to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened  as  by 
the  stimulating  action  of  golden  shower-baths, 

"  You  have  a  son.  I  believe?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Four  on  'em,  sir.    Four  hims  and  a  her.    All  alive!" 

"Why,  it's  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them!" 
said  Mr.  Dornbey. 

"  I  couldn't  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world 
less,  sir," 

"What  is  that?" 

"To  lose  'em,  sir." 

"Can  you  read?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Why,  not  partick'ler,  sir." 

"Write?" 

"With  chalk,  sir," 

"  With  anything?  " 

"  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bit,  I  think,  if  I 
was  put  to  it,"  said  Toodle,  after  some  reflection. 

"And  yet."  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "you  are  two  or  three 
and  thirty,  I  suppose?" 

"  Thereabouts,  I  suppose,  sir,"  answered  Toodle,  after 
more  reflection. 

"Then  why  don't  you  learn?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey, 

"So  I'm  a  going  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  a 
going  to  learn  me,  when  he's  old  enough,  and  been  to 
school  himself." 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  at- 
tentively and  with  no  great  favor,  as  he  stood  gazing 
round  the  room  (principally  round  the  ceiling)  and  still 
drawing  his  hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.  "  You 
heard  what  I  said  to  your  wife  just  now?" 

"  Polly  heerd  it,"  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of 
perfect  confidence  in  his  better  half.     "  It's  all  ri^ht." 

"  As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,"  said  Mr, 
Dombey,  frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his 
views  still  more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the 
stronger  character,  "I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying 
anything  to  vou." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Toodle.  "Polly  heerd  it.  She's 
awake,  sir," 

"I  won't  detain  you  any  longer  then,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  disappointed.  "Where  have  you  worked  all 
your  life?  " 

"Mostlf  underground,  sir,  'tilll  got  TQa.Tt\.sj^.  \cot^s-- 


i?j  DOMBEY  AJST)  SON. 

to  the  level  then.    Tm  a  going  on  one  of  these  h 
lailn^jads  when  they  comes  into  full  play,*'   ■ 

As  the  lai^i  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  i. 
piece  of  undeiground  information  crushed  the  sinkii 
spirils  of  Mr.  Ltombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  fost( 
father  to  the  door,  who  departed  by  no  means  unwi 
ing^ly:  and  then  turning  the  key,  paced  up  and  dois 
thr  n>.>m  in  solitary  wretchedness.  For  all  his  starch* 
impenetrable  dignity  and  composure,  he  wiped  blindin 
t^'ars  frrim  his  eves  as  he  did  so:  and  often  said,  wilu  ■ 
an  emoti<)a  of  which  he  would  not,  for  the  world,  have 
had  a  witness,  •■Pot>r  httle  fellowl" 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr,  Dombey's  pride 
that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Xot  poor  me. 
N'»t  poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint  in  the  wife 
of  an  ignorant  Hind  who  has  been  working  •"mostly 
underground "'  all  his  life,  and  yet  at  whose  door  Deatn 
bad  never  knocked,  and  at  whose  poor  table  four  sons 
daily  sit— but  p<x>r  little  fellow! 

Th.:>se  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him — and 
it  is  an  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which  his 
hopes  and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to 
one  centre — that  a  great  temptation  was  being  placed  in 
this  woman's  way.  Her  infant  was  a  boy  too.  Now 
would  il  be  possible  for  her  to  change  thein? 

Though  he  was  sixin  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed 
the  idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely — though  iK^sible, 
there  was  do  denying — he  could  not  help  pursuing  it  so 
far  as  to  entertain  within  himself  a  picture  of  what  his 
c^n'iition  would  be  if  he  should  discover  such  an  impost- 
ure when  he  was  grown  old,  Whether  a  man  so  situ- 
at-^  would  be  able  to  pluck  awav  the  result  of  so  many 
v.-ars  of  usage,  contidence.  and  l>olief,  from  the  impos- 
u.r.  and  endow  a  stranger  witli  it? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings 
graduaiiv  melied  away,  though  sv>  much  of  their  shadow 
remained  behind  that  he  was  coiislant  in  his  resolution 
t--.  I'-.'k  closely  after  Richanis  hinisolf,  without  appear- 
ing lo  do  so.  Being  now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he 
r-r^trard-rd  the  woman's  station  as  rrttlier  an  advantageous 
-circumstance  than  otherwist\  by  placing,  in  itself,  a 
bix>ad  distance  betwt-en  her  and  the  child,  and  rendering 
their  separation  easy  and  untunil. 

Meanwhile  terms  were  ratilied  and  agreed  upon  be- 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  81 

tween  Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of 
Miss  Tox|  and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  in- 
vested with  the  Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order, 
resigned  her  own  with  many  tears  and  kisses  to  Jemima. 
Glasses  of  wine  were  then  produced  to  suBtain  the 
drooping  spirits  of  the  family. 

"You'll  take  a  glass  yourself,  sir,  won't  you?"  said 
Miss  Tox,  as  Toodle  appeared. 

"Thankee,  mum,"  said  Toodle,  "since  you  are  sup- 
pressing." 

"  And  you're  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife 
in  such  a  comfortable  home,  ain't  you,  sir?"  said  Miss 
Tox,  nodding  and  winking  at  him  stealthily. 

"No,  mum,"  said  Toodle.  "Here's  wishing  of  her 
back  ^in." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  Mrs,  Chick, 
who  had  her  matronly  apprehensions  that  this  indulg- 
ence in  grief  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey 
( "acid,  mdeed,"  she  whispered  Miss  Tox),  hastened  to 
the  rescue. 

"Your  little  child  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your 
sister  Jemima,  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick;  "and  you 
have  only  to  make  an  effort — this  is  a  world  of  effort, 
you  know,  Richards — to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You 
have  been  already  measured  for  your  mourning,  haven't 
you,  Richards?" 

"  Ye — es,  ma'am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

"And  it'll  fit  beautifully,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  for  the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dfesses. 
The  very  best  materials  too!" 

"  Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  your 
husband  won't  know  you;  will  you,  sir?  " 

"  I  should  know  her,"  said  Toodle,  gruffly,  "  anyhows 
and  anywheres," 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over. 

"As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Chick,  "why  the  very  best  of  everything  will  be  at 
your  disposal.  You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every 
day;  and  anything  you  take  a  fancy  to,  I'm  sure  will  be 
as  readily  provided  as  if  you  were  a  lady." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure! "  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the  ball 
with  great  sympathy.  "And  as  to  porter! — quite  un- 
limited, will  it  not,  Louisa?  " 

"Oh,  certainly!"  returned  Mrs.  CUVcV,  Vo,  \;Qa  wasie. 


32  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tone.  "  With  a  little  abstinence,  you  know,  my  dear, 
in  point  of  vegetables." 

"  And  pickles,  perhaps,"  sup^gested  Mrs.  Tox. 

"With  such  exceptions,"  saia  Louisa,  "she'll  consult 
her  choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my 
love," 

"And  then,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"however  fond  she  in  of  her  own  dear  little  child — ami 
Tm  sure,  Louisa,  you  don't  blame  her  for  being  fond 
of  it?" 

"Oh  no!"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

"  Still,"  resumed  Miss  Tox,  "  she  naturally  must  be  in- 
terested in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a 
privilege  to  see  a  little  cherub  closely  connected  with 
the  superior  classes  gradually  unfolding  itself  from  day 
to  day  at  one  common  fountain.*  Is  it  not  so,  Louisa?" 

"Most  undoubtedly!"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "You  see, 
my  love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable, 
and  means  to  say  good  by  to  her  sister  Jemima  and 
her  Uttle  pets,  and  her  good  honest  husband,  with  a 
light  heart  and  a  smile;  don't  she,  my  dear!" 

"  Oh  yes! "  cried  Miss  Tox.     "  To  be  sure  she  does! " 

Notwithstanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  em- 
braced them  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  finally  ran 
away  to  avoid  any  more  particular  leave-taking  be- 
tween herself  and  the  children.  But  the  stratagem 
hardly  succeeded  as  well  as  it  deserved;  for  the  small- 
est boy  but  one  divining  her  intent,  immediately  began 
swarming  up-stairs  after  her — if  that  word  of  doubtful 
etymology  be  admissible — on  his  arms  and  legs;  while 
the  eldest  (known  in  the  family  by  the  name  of  Biler, 
in  remembrance  of  the  steam-engine)  beat  a  demoni- 
acal tattoo  with  his  boots,  expressive  of  grief;  in  wliich 
he  was  joined  by  the  rest  of  tlie  family. 

A  quantity  of  oranges  and  halfpence,  thrust  indis- 
criminately on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first 
violence  of  their  regret,  and  the  family  were  speedily 
transported  to  their  own  home,  by  means  of  the  hack- 
ney-coach kept  in  waiting  for  that  purpose.  The  chil- 
dren, under  tne  guardianship  of  Jemima,  blocked  up 
the  window,  and  dropped  out  oranges  and  halfpence  all 
the  way  along.  Mr.  Toodle  himself  preferred  to  ride 
behind  among  the  spikes,  as  being  the  mode  of  convey- 
ance to  which  he  was  best  accustomed. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 
CHAPTER  III. 


The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  liaving  been  "  per- 
formed "  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  as 
well  as  of  the  neighborhood  at  large,  which  is  generally 
disposed  to  be  captious  on  such  a  point,  and  is  prone  to 
take  offence  at  an^  omissions  or  shortcomings  in  the 
ceremonies,  the  various  members  of  Mr.  Dombey's  hoOse- 
hold  subsided  into  their  several  places  in  the  domestic 
system.  That  small  world,  like  the  great  one  out  of 
doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its  dead; 
and  when  the  cook  liad  said  she  was  a  quiet-tempered 
lady,  and  the  housekeeper  had  said  it  was  the  common 
lot,  and  the  butler  bad  said  who'd  have  thought  it,  and 
the  housemaid  had  said  she  couldn't  hardly  believe  it. 
and  the  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly  like  a  dream, 
they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  oegan  to  think 
their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up-stairs  ia  a  state 
of  honorable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed 
to  break  cold  and  grey.  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was  a 
large  one,  o*  the  shady  Bide  of  a  tall,  dark,  dreadfully 
genteel  street  in  the  region  between  Portland-place  and 
Bryan  stone-square.  It  was  a  corner  house,  with  great 
wide  areas  containing  cellars  frowne<i  upon  by  barred 
windows,  and  leered  at  by  crooked-eyed  doors  leading 
to  dust-hins.  It  was  a  house  of  dismal  state,  with  a  cir- 
cular back  to  it,  containing  a  whole  suite  of  drawing- 
rooms  looking  upon  a  gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt 
trees,  with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled 
rather  than  rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke-dried. 
The  summer  sun  was  never  on  the  street  but  ia  the 
morning  aliout  breakfast-time,  when  it  came  with 
the  water-carts  and  the  old  clothes-men,  and  the  people 
with  geraniums,  and  the  umbrella-mender,  and  the  man 
who  trilled  the  little  bell  of  the  Dutch  clock  as  be  went 
along.  It  was  soon  gone  again  to  return  no  more  that 
day;  and  the  hands  of  music  and  the  straggling  Punch's 
shows  going  after  it,  left  it  a  prey  to  me  iivo%\.  iV\sk«!Ji. 
of  organs,  andwhite  mice;  withnovj  ani^Xxftua.  ^^wa.- 


34  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pine,  to  vary  the  entertainments;  until  the  butlers,  whose 
families  were  dining  out,  began  to  stand  at  the  house 
doors  in  the  twiUgnt,  and  the  lamp-lighter  made  his 
nightly  failure  in  attempting  to  brighten  up  the  street 
with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a  house  inside  as  outside.  When  the 
funeral  was  over,  Mr,  Dombey  onlered  the  furniture  to 
be  covered  up — perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with 
whom  his  plans  were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to 
be  ungamished,  saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himself 
on  the  ground  floor.  Accordinely,  mvaterious  shapes 
wtfre  made  of  tables  and  chairs,  neapea  together  in  the 
middle  of  rooms,  and  covered  over  with  great  winding 
sheets.  Bell-handles,  window -blinds,  and  looking- 
glasses,  being  papered  up  in  journals,  daily  and  weekly, 
obtruded  fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  and  dreadful 
murders.  Every  chandelier  or  lustre,  muffled  in  hoi- 
land,  looked  like  a  monstrous  tear  depending  from  the 
ceiling's  eye.  Odors,  as  from  vaults  and  damp  places, 
came  out  of  the  chimneys.  The  dead  and  buried  lady 
was  awful  in  a  picture-frame  of  ghastly  bandages.  Ev- 
ery gust  of  wind  that  rose  brought,  eddying  round  the 
comer  from  the  neighboring  mews,  some  fragments  of 
the  straw  that  had  been  strewn  before  the  house  when 
she  was  ill,  mildewed  remains  of  which  were  still  cleav- 
ing to  the  neighborhood;  and  these.  being«lways  drawn 
by  some  invisible  attraction  to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty 
house  to  let  immediately  opposite,  addressed  a  dismal 
eloquence  to  Mr.  Dombey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  Mr.  Dombey  reserved  for  his 
own  inhabiting  were  attainable  from  the  hall,  and  con- 
sisted of  a  sittmg-room;  a  library,  which  was  in  fact  a 
dressing-room,  so  that  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper, 
vellum,  morocco,  and  Russia  leather,  contended  in  it 
with  the  smell  of  divers  pairs  of  boots;  and  a  kind  of 
conservatory  or  little  glass  breakfast-room  beyond, 
commanding  a  prosjject  of  the  trees  before  mentioned, 
and,  generally  speakmg,  of  a  few  prowling  cats.  These 
three  rooms  opened  upon  one  another.  In  the  morning, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or  other 
of  the  two  first  mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the 
afternoon  "when  he  came  home  to  dinner,  a  bell  waF 
rung  for  Richards  to  repair  to  this  glass  chamber,  anc 
there  walk  to  and  fro  with  iier  young  charge.    Frw 


IJOMBEY  AND  SON.  25 

the  glimpse  she  caught  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these  timea, 
sitting  in  the  tiarfc  distance,  looking  out  towards  the 
infant  from  among  the  dark  heavy  furniture — the 
house  had  heen  inhabited  for  years  by  his  father,  and 
in  manv  of  its  appointments  was  old-fashioned  and 
grim— she  began  to  entertain  ideas  of  him  in  his  soli- 
tary state  as  if  he  were  a  lone  prisoner  in  a  cell,  or 
a  strange  apparition  that  was  not  to  be  accosted  or  un- 
derstood. 

Little  Paul  Dombey's  foster-mother  had  led  tliis  life 
herself  and  had  carried  little  Paul  through  it  for  some 
weeks;  and  had  returned  up-staira  one  day  from  a  mel- 
ancholy saunter  tlirough  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she 
never  went  out  without  Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fine 
mornings,  usually  accompanied  by  Miss  Tox,  to  take 
her  and  Baby  for  an  airing — or  in  other  words,  to  march 
them  gravely  up  and  down  the  pavement;  like  a  walk- 
ing funeral) ;  when,  as  she  was  sitting  in  her  own  room, 
the  door  was  slowly  and  quietly  opened,  and  a  dark- 
eyed  little  girl  looked  in. 

"  It's  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt's,  no 
doubt,"  thought  Bichards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child 
before.     "  Hope  I  see  you  well,  miss," 

"  Ts  that  my  brother?"  asked  the  child,  pointing  to 
the  baby. 

"Yes,  my  pretty,"  answered  Richards.  "Come  and 
kiss  him." 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  earn- 
estly in  the  face,  and  said: 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  Mama?  " 

"  Lord  bless  the  little  creeter!  cried  Richards,  "  what 
a  sad  question!    I  done?    Nothing,  miss." 

"  What  have  they  done  with  my  Mama?"  inquired  the 
child. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  melting  thing  in  all  my  life!" 
said  Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child 
one  of  her  own,  inquiring  for  herself  in  like  circuni- 
stances.  "  Come  nearer  here,  my  dear  miss!  Don't  be 
afraid  of  me." 

"  1  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  child,  drawing 
nearer.  "But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have  done 
with  my  Mama." 

"  My  darling,"  said  Bichards,  "  you  wear  that  pretty 
black  frock  in  remembrance  ol  "jo\xt  "^waa^" 


2(i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  can  remember  my  Mama,"  returned  the  child, 
with  tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "  in  any  frock." 

"But  people  put  on  black  to  remember  people  when 
they're  gone." 

"  Where  gone?"  asked  the  child. 

"Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Richards,  "and 
I'll  tell  you  a  story." 

With  a  quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate 
to  what  she  had  asked,  little  Florence  laid  aside  the 
bonnet  she  had  held  in  her  band  until  now,  and  sat 
down  on  a  stool  at  the  nurse  s  feet,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Richards,  "there  was  a 
lady— a  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her." 

"A  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her,"  repeated  the  child. 

"Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be 
so.  was  taken  ill  and  died.  ' 

The  child  shuddered. 

"  Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  earth, 
and  was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow." 

"  The  cold  ground,"  said  the  child  shuddering  again. 

"  No!  The  warm  ground,"  returned  Polly,  seizing  her 
advantage,  "  where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  into  beau- 
tiful flowers,  and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I  don't  know 
what  al!  besides.  Where  good  people  turn  into  bright 
angels,  and  fly  away  to  Heaven!  ' 

The  child,  who  had  dropped  her  head,  raised  it  again, 
and  sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

"So;  let  me  see,"  said  Polly,  not  a  little  flurried  be- 
tween this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the 
child,  her  sudden  success,  and  her  very  slight  confi- 
dence in  her  own  powers.  "  So,  when  this  lady  died, 
wherever  they  took  her,  or  wherever  they  put  her.  she 
went  to  God!  and  she  prayed  to  Him,  this  lady  did," 
said  Polly,  affected  herself  beyond  measure;  being 
heartily  m  earnest,  "to  teach  her  little  daughter  to  be 
sure  of  that  in  her  heart:  and  to  know  that  she  was 
happy  there  and  loved  her  still:  and  to  hope  and  try — 
Oh  all  her  life — to  meet  her  there  one  day,  never,  never, 
never  to  part  any  more." 

"  It  was  my  Mama!"  exclaimed  the  child,  springing 
up,  and  clasping  her  round  the  neck, 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


1>0MBEY  AND  SOK.  2? 

"And the  child's  heart,"  eaid  Polly,  drawing  her  to 
her  breast:  "the  little  daughter's  heart  was  so  full  of 
the  truth  of  this,  that  even  when  she  heard  it  from  a 
strange  nurse  that  couldn't  tell  it  right,  but  was  a  poor 
mother  herself  apd  that  was  all.  she  found  a  comfort  in 
it — didn't  feel  so  loneljy— sobbed  and  cried  upon  her 
bosom — took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in  her  lap — and — 
there,  there,  there!  "  said  Polly  smoothing  the  child's 
curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them.  "There,  poor 
dear ! " 

"  Oh  well,  Miss  Floy!  And  won't  your  Pa  be  angry 
neither! "  cried  a  quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding 
from  a  short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a 
little  snub  nose  and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads,  "when 
it  was  'tickerlerly  given  out  that  you  wasn't  to  go  and 
worrit  the  wet  nurse." 

"  She  don't  worry  me,"  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of 
Polly.     "  I  am  very  fond  of  children.'' 

"Oh!  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that 
don't  matter  you  know,"  returned  the  black-eyed  girl, 
who  was  so  desperately  sharp  and  biting  that  she  seemed 
to  make  one's  eyes  water,     "I  may  be  very  fond  of 

P^nnywinkles,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don't  follow  that 
m  to  have  'em  for  tea." 
"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Polly. 
"  Oh  thankee,  Mrs.  Richards,  don't  it!"  returned  the 
sharp  girl.     "  R«membering,  however,  if  you  '11  he  so 

fooci,  that  Miss  Floy 's  under  my  charge,  and  Master 
aul  's  under  your'n." 

"But  still  we  needn't  quarrel,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  no.  Mrs.  Richards,"  rejoined  Spitfire.  "Not  at 
a]],  I  don't  wish  it,  we  needn't  stand  upon  that  footing, 
Miss  Floy  being  a  permanency,  Master  Paul  a  tempo- 
rary." Spitfire  made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses, 
shooting  out  whatever  she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence, 
and  in  one  breath,  if  possible. 

"MisB  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn't  she?" 
asked  Polly. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come  home,  and  here,  Miss 
Floy,  before  you  've  been  in  the  house  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  you  go  a  smearing  your  wet  face  against  the  ex- 
pensive mourning  that  Mrs.  Richards  is  a  wearing  for 
your  Ma!"  With  this  remonstrahce,  young  Spitfire, 
whose  real  name  was  Susan  15ip^eT,4ii\a,iiWi'Cwej  (;V-Ms, 


S8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

from  her  new  friend  by  a  wrench —  as  if  she  were  a 
tooth.  But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in  the  excessively 
sharp  exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than  with  any 
deliberate  unkindness. 

"  Slie  '11  be  quite  happy,  now  she  lias  come  home 
again,"  said  Polly,  nodamg  to  her  with  an  encouraging 
smile  upon  her  wholesome  face,  "  and  will  beso  pleased 
to  see  her  dear  Papa  to-night.'' 

'*  Lork,  Mrs.  Ricnards! '  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking  up 
her  words  with  a  jerk.  "Don't.  See  her  dear  Papa 
indeed!    I  should  like  to  see  her  do  it! " 

"  Won't  she  then?  "  asked  Polly. 

"Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  Pa's  a  deal  too 
wrapped  up  in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a 
somebody  else  to  be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a 
favorite,  girls  are  thrown  away  in  this  house,  Mrs. 
Richards,  /assure  you." 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other, 
as  if  she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

"  You  surprise  me! "  cried  Polly.  "  Hasn't  Mr,  Dom- 
bey  seen  her  since — " 

" No,"  interrupted  Susan  Nipper,  "Not  once  since, 
and  he  hadn't  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that 
for  months  and  months,  and  I  don't  think  he  'd  have 
known  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the 
streets,  or  would  know  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  was 
to  meet  her  in  the  streets  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Richards,  as 
tome,"  said  Sjjitfire,  with  a  giggle,  "I  doubt  if  he's 
aweer  of  my  existence." 

"Pretty  dear!"  said  Richards;  meaning,  not  Miss 
Nipper,  but  little  Florence. 

"Oh!  there's  a  Tartar  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
where  we  're  now  in  conversation,  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Richards,  present  company  always  excepted  too,"  said 
Susan  Nipper;  ••  wish  you  good  morning,  Mrs.  Richards, 
now  Miss  Floy,  vou  come  along  with  me,  and  don't  go 
hanging  back  like  a  naughty  wicked  child  that  judg- 
ments is  no  example  to,  don't." 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of 
some  nauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending 
towards  the  dislocation  of  her  right  shoulder,  little 
Florence  broke  away,  and  kissed  her  new  friend,  affecr 
tionately, 

"  Good  by!  "  said  the  child.     "God  bless  you!  I  shs 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


T  dom't  rOUiOW  TtU.T  I'k 

DigilicJb,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you  '11  come  to  see  me? 
Susan  will  let  us.     Won't  you,  Susan?  " 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a  good-natured  little 
body,  although  a  disciple  of  that  school-  of  trainere  of 
the  young  idea  which  riolds  that  childhood,  like  money, 
must  be  shaken  and  rattled  and  jostled  about  a  good 
deal  to  keep  it  bright.  For,  being  thus  appealed  to  with 
some  endearing  gestures  and  caresses,  she  folded  her 
small  arms  and  shook  her  head,  and  conveyed  a  relent- 
ing expression  into  her  very- wide-open  black  eyes. 

"It  ain't  right  of  you  to  ask  it.  Miss  Floy,  for  you 
know  I  can't  refuse  you,  but  Mrs,  Richards  and  me  will 
see  what  can  be  be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  I  may 
wish,  vou  see,  to  take  a  voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards, but  I  mayn't  know  how  to  leave  the  London 
Docks" 

Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 

"  This  house  ain't  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry- 
making," said  Miss  Nipper,  "  that  one  need  be  lonelier 
than  one  must  be.  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may 
draw  out  my  two  front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richarde, 
but  that's  no  reason  why  I  need  offer  'em  the  whole  set." 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as 
an  obvious  one. 

"  So  I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sfire,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  to 
live  friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul  con- 
tinues a  permanency,  if  the  means  can  be  planned  out 
without  going  openly  against  orders,  but  goodness  gra- 
cious ME,  Miss  Floy,  you  haven't  got  your  things  off  yet, 
you  naughty  child,  you  haven't,  come  along!" 

With  these  words,  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  transport  of  co- 
ercion, made  a  charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept 
her  out  of  the  room. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so 
quiet,  and  uncomplaining;  was  possessed  of  so  much 
affection  that  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so 
much  sorrowful  intelligence  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind 
or  think  about  the  wounding  of,  that  Polly's  heart  was 
sore  when  she  was  left  alone  again.  In  the  simple 
passage  that  had  taken  place  between  herself  and  the 
motherless  little  girl,  her  own  motherly  heart  had  been 
touched  no  less  than  the  child's;  and  she  felt,  as  the 
child  did,  that  there  was  something  of  confidence  and 
interest  between  them  from  that  momenX.. 


30  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle's  great  reliance  on  Polly, 
she  was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments 
very  little  his  superior.    But  she  was  a  good  plain  sain- 

Ele  of  a  nature  that  is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer, 
igher,  nobler,  quicker  to  feel,  and  much  more  constant 
to  retain,  ail  tenderness  and  pity,  self-denial  and  devo- 
tion, than  the  nature  of  men.  And,  perhaps,  unlearned 
as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a  dawning  knowl- 
edge home  to  Mr.  Dombey,  at  that  early  day,  which 
would  not  then  have  struck  him  in  the  end  like  light- 
ning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at 
that  time,  of  improvj^g  on  her  successful  propitiation  of 
Miss  Nipper,  and  devising  some  means  of  having  little 
Florence  beside  her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion. 
An  opening  happened  to  present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  Been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual, 
and  had  walked  about  it  a  long  time,  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dismay,  Mr. 
Dombey  came  out  suddenly,  and  stopped  before  her. 

"  Good  evening,  Richards." 

Just  the  same  austere,  stiff  gentleman,  as  he  had  ap- 
peared to  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a  hard-looking 
gentleman  that  she  involuntarily  dropped  her  eyes  and 
her  curtsey  at  the  same  tim^, 

"  How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards?" 

"Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well." 

"  He  looks  so,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  with  great 
interest  at  the  tiny  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observa- 
tion, and  yet  affecting  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  "  They*" 
give  you  everything  you  want,  I  hope?" 

'■Oh  yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to 
this  reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned 
away,  stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

•'  I  believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  makmg  children 
lively  and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  playing 
about  'em."  observed  Polly,  taking  courage. 

*'  I  think  I  mentioned  to  yuu,  Richards,  when  you 
came  here,"  said  Mr.  Dombej' with  a  frown,  "that  I 
wished  you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible. 
You  can  continue  your  walk  if  you  please." 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  bis  inner  room;  and 
Polly  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  tliat  he  had  thor- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ;>. 

oughly  misunderstood  her  object,  and  that  she  had 
fallen  into  disgrace  without  the  least  advancement  of 
her  purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  him  walking  about  the  con- 
servatory when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  the 
door,  checked  by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain 
whether  to  advance  or  retreat,  he  called  her  in. 

"If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  for 
the  child,"  he  said  sharply,  as  if  there  had  been  no  in- 
terval since  she  proposed  it,  "  where's  Miss  Florence?  " 

"  Nothing  could  oe  better  than  Miss  Florence,  sir." 
said  Polly  eagerly,  "but  I  understood  from  her  little 
maid  that  they  were  not  to — " 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  was  an- 
swered. 

"  Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Rich- 
ards when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so 
forth.  Tell  them  to  let  the  children  be  together  when 
Richards  wishes  it." 

The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it 
boldly — it  was  a  good  cause  and  she  was  bolu  in  it. 
though  instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey — requested 
that  Miss  Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there, 
to  make  friends  with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant 
retired  on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  she  saw  that  Mr. 
Dombey's  color  changed;  that  the  expression  of  his  face 
quite  altered;  that  he  turned  hurriedly,  as  if  to  gainsay 
what  he  had  said,  or  she  had  said,  or  both,  and  was  only 
deterred  by  very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his 
slighted  child  there  had  been  that,  in  the  sad  embrace 
between  her  and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  once 
a  revelation  and  a  reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  ab- 
sorbed as  he  would  in  the  Son  on  whom  he  built  such 
high  hopes,  he  could  not  forget  that  closing  scene.  He 
could  not  foreet  that  he  had  nad  no  part  in  it.  That,  at 
the  bottom  of  its  clear  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth, 
lay  those  two  figures  claspedjn  each  other's  arms,  wbile 
he  stood  on  the  bank  above  them,  looking  down  a  mere 
spectator— not  a  sharer  with  them — quite  shut  out. 

Unableto  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance, 
or  to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of 
the  meaning  with  which  they  were  IraugtA   aa  ^q."e^ 


33  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

able  to  make  themselves  viBible  to  him  through  the  mist 
of  his  pride,  his  previous  feelings  of  indifference  to- 
wards little  Florence  changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an 
extraordinary  kind.  Ho  almost  felt  as  if  she  watched 
and  distrusted  him.  As  if  she  held  the  clue  to  some- 
thing secret  in  his  breast  of  the  nature  of  which  he  was 
hardly  informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an  innate 
knowledge  of  one  jarring  and  discordant  string  within 
him,  and  her  very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from 
her  birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her; 
it  had  not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humor.  She 
had  never  been  a  positively  disagreeable  object  to  him. 
But  now  he  was  ill  at  ease  about  ner.  She  troubled  his 
peace.  He  would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside 
altogether,  if  he  had  known  how.  Perhaps — who  shall 
decide  on  such  mysteries? — he  was  afraid  that  he  might 
come  to  hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr. 
Dombey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down,  and  looked 
towards  her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and 
with  a  father's  eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen 
glance  the  impulses  and  tears  that  made  her  waver;  the 

Kassionate  desire  to  run  clinging  to  him,  crying,  as  she 
id  her  face  in  his  embrace,  "Oh,  father,  try  to  love 
me!  there's  no  one  else!"  the  dread  of  a  repulse;  the 
fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending  him;  the  piti- 
able need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance  and 
encouragement;  and  how  her  overcharged  young  heart 
was  wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place  for 
its  sorrow  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  irreso- 
lutely at  the  door  and  look  towards  him;  and  he  saw  no 
more. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  "come  in:  what  is  the  child 
afraid  of?" 

She  came  in;  and  after  glancing  round  her  for  a  mo- 
ment with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small 
haivls  hard  together,  close  within  the  door, 

"  Come  here,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  coldly.  "  Do 
you  know  who  I  am?" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?" 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  aa  she  raised  them 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  33 

quickly  to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it 
wore.  She  looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trem- 
bling hand. 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  upon  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  knew  as  little 
as  the  child  what  to  say  or  do. 

"  Therel  Be  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a  dis- 
turbed and  doubtful  look.     "Go  to  Richards!    Go! " 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as 
though  she  would  have  clun^  about  him  strll,  or  had 
some  lingering  hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  ner.  She  looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He 
thought  how  like  her  expression  was  then  to  what  it 
had  oeen  when  she  looked  round  at  the  doctor — that 
night — and  instinctively  dropped  her  hand  and  turned 
away. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at  a 
great  disadvantage  in  her  father's  presence.  It  was  not 
only  a  constraint  upon  the  child's  mind,  but  even  upon 
the"  natural  grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions.  Still 
Polly  persevered  with  all  the  better  heart  for  seeing 
this;  and,  judgin^of  Mr.  Dombey  by  herself,  had  great 
confidence  in  the  mute  appeal  of  poor  little  Florence's 
mourning  dress.  "It's  hard  indeed,"  thought  Polly, 
"  if  be  takes  only  to  one  little  motherless  child  when 
he  has  another,  and  that  a  girl,  before  his  eyes." 

So  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  managed  so  well  with  little  Paul  as  to  make 
it  very  plain  that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  his  sister's 
company.  When  it  was  time  to  withdraw  up-stairs 
again,  she  would  have  sent  Florence  into  the  inner 
room  to  say  good  night- to  her  father,  but  the  child  was 
timid  and  drew  back;  and  when  she  urged  her  again, 
said,  spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  her  own  unworthiness,  *'  Oh  no,  no!  He  don't  want 
me.     He  don't  want  me!" 

The  little  altercation  between  them  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Dombey.  who  inquired  from  the  table, 
where  he  was  sitting  at  his  wine,  what  the  matter  was. 

"  Miss  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  sir,  if  she 
came  in  to  say  good  night,"  said  Richards. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "You 
can  let  her  come  and  go  without  regarding  Tue." 


34  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened — and  was  gone  be- 
fore her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However.  Polly  triumphed  not  a  Httle  in  the  success 
of  her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with 
which  she  had  brought  it  to  bear:  whereof  she  made  a 
full  disclosure  to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely 
intrenched  up-stairs.  Miss  Kipper  received  that  proof 
of  her  confidence,  as  well  as  tiie  prospect  of  their  free 
association  for  the  future,  rather  coldly,  and  was  any- 
thing but  enthusiastic  in  her  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  r thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,"  said  Polly, 

"Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards.  I'm  very  well  pleased,  thank 
you,"  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so 
very  upright  that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional 
bone  in  her  stays. 

"You  don't  show  it,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh!  Being  only  a  permanencv  I  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  sliow  it  like  a  temporary,'*^  said  Susan  Nipper. 
"Temporaries  carries  it  all  before  "em  here,  I  find,  but 
though  there 's  a  excellent  party-wall  between  this 
house  and  the  next.  I  mayn't  exactly  like  to  go  to  it, 
Mrs.  Richards,  notwithstanding!" 


CHAPTER  rV. 


Though  the  offices  of  Dombev  and  Son  were  within 
the  liberties  of  the  city  of  London,  and  within  hearing 
of  Bow  Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not 
drowned  bv  the  uproar  in  the  streets,  yet  were  there 
hints  of  a(t venturous  and  romantic  story  to  be  observed 
in  some  of  the  adjacent  objects.  Gog  and  Magog  held 
their  state  within  ten  minutes'  walk;  the  Royal  Ex- 
change was  close  at  Iiand:  the  Bank  of  England,  with 
its  vaults  of  gold  and  silver  "  down  among  the  dead 
men  "  underground,  was  their  magnificent  neighbor. 
Just  round  the  corner  stood  the  rich  Ea*t  India  House. 
teeming  with  suggestions  of  precious  stuffs  and  stones, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

tigers,  elephants,  howdahs.  hookahs,  umbrellas,  palm- 
trees,  palanquins,  ami  gorgeous  princes  of  a  brown  com- 
plexion sitting  on  carpets  with  ttieir  slippers  very  much 
turned  up  at  the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  immetfiate  vi- 
cinity there  mi^ht  be  seen  pictures  of  ships  speeding 
away  at  full  sail  to  all  parts  of  the  worltf;  outfitting 
warehouses  ready  to  pact  off  anybody  anywhere  fully 
equipped  in  half  an  hour;  and  little  timber  midshipmen 
in  obsolete  naval  uniforms,  eternally  employed  outside 
the  shpp-doors  of  nautical  instrument-makers  in  taking 
observations  of  the  hackney-coaches. 

Sole  master  and  proprietor  of  one  of  these  effigies — of 
that  which  might  be  called,  familiarly,  the  woodeneat — 
of  that  which  thrust  itself  out  above  the  pavement, 
right  leg  foremost,  with  a  suavity  the  least  endurable, 
and  had  the  shoe  buckles  and  flapped  waistcoat  the 
least  reconcilable  to  human  reason,  and  bore  at  its  right 
eve  the  most  offensively  disproportionate  piece  of  ma- 
cninery— sole  master  and  proprietor  of  that  midshipman, 
and  proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a  Welsh 
wig  had  paid  house-rent,  taxes,  and  dues,  for  more  years 
than  many  a  full-grown  midshipman  of  flesh  and  blood 
has  numbered  in  his  life;  and  midbhipmen  who  have 
attained  a  pretty  green  old  age  have  not  been  wanting 
in  the  English  navv. 

The  stock  in  trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised 
chronometers,  barometers,  telescopes,  compasses,  charts, 
maps,  sextants,  quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every 
kind  of  inRtrument  used  in  the  working  of  a  ship's 
course,  or  the  keeping  of  a  ship's  reckoning,  or  the  pros- 
ecuting of  a  ship's  discoveries.  Objects  m  brass  and 
glass  were  in  his  drawers  and  on  nis  shelves,  which 
none  but  the  initiated  could  have  found  the  top  of.  or 
guessed  the  use  of  or,  having  once  examined,  cnuld  have 
ever  got  back  again  into  their  mahogany  nests  without 
assis&nce.  Everything  was  jammed  into  the  tightest 
cases,  fitted  into  the  narrowest  corners,  fenced  up  be- 
hind the  most  impertinent  cushions,  and  screwed  into 
the  acutest  angles,  to  prevent  its  philosophical  compos- 
ure from  being  disturbed  by  therollingof  tliesea.  Such 
extraordinarj-  precautions  were  taken  in  every  instance 
to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing  compact:  and  so  much 
practical  navigation  was  fitted,  and  cushioned,  a-ud 
screwed  into  every  box  (whether  t\ie  \)0'x.  ■was  a,  TtieT<6 


36  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Blab,  as  some  were,  or  something  between  a  cocked  hat 
and  a  star-fish,  as  others  were,  and  tliose  quite  mild  and 
modest  bozes  as  compared  with  others);  that  the  shop 
itself,  partaking  of  the  general  infection,  seemed  almost 
to  become  a  enug,  sea-going,  ship-shape  concern,  want- 
ing only  good  sea-room,  in  the  event  of  an  unexpected 
launch,  to  work  its  way  securely  to  any  desert  island  in 
the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the 
Ships'  Instrument-maker  who  was  proud  of  his  little 
midshipman,  assisted  and  bore  out  this  fancy.'  His 
acquaintance  lying  chiefly  among  ship-chandlers  and 
so  forth,  he  had  always  plenty  of  the  veritable  ships' 
biscuit  on  his  table.  It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats 
and  tongues,  possessing  an  extraordinary  flavor  of  rope 
yarn.  Pickles  were  produced  upon  it,  m  ^eat  whole- 
sale jars,  with  "dealer  in  all  kindsof  Ships' Provisions " 
on  the  label;  spirits  were  set  forth  in  case  bottles  with 
no  throats.  Old  prints  of  ships,  with  alphabetical  refer- 
ences to  their  various  mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon 
the  Walls;  the  Tartar  Frigate  under  weigh,  was  on  the 
plates:  outlandish  shells,  seaweeds,  and  mosses,  deco- 
rated the  chimney-piece;  the  little  wainscoted  back  par- 
lor was  lighted  by  a  skylight,  like  a  cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with 
his  nephew  Walter:  a  hoy  of  fourteen  who  looked  quite 
enough  like  a  midshipman  to  carrv  out  the  prevailing 
idea.  But  there  it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself 
(more  generally  called  old  Sol)  was  far  from  having  a 
maritime  appearance.  To  say  nothing  of  his  Welsh 
wig,  which  was  as  plain  and  stubborn  a  Welsh  wig  as 
ever  was  worn,  ana  in  which  he  looked  like  anything 
but  a  Rover,  he  was  a  slow,  quiet-spoken,  thoughtful 
old  fellow,  with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small 
suns  looking  at  you  through  a  fog;  and  a  newly 
awakened  manner,  such  as  he  might  have  acquired 
by  having  stared  for  tliree  or  four  days  successively 
through  every  optical  instrument  in  his  shop,  and  sud- 
denly came  back  to  the  world  again,  to  find  it  green. 
The  only  change  ever  known  in  liis  outward  man  was 
ffom  a  complete  suit  of  coffee-color  cut  very  square, 
and  ornamented  with  glaring  buttons,  to  the  same  suit 
of  coffee-color  minus  the  inexpressibles,  which  were 
then  of  a  pale  nankeen.     He  wore  a  very  precise  shirt- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  37 

frill,  and  carried  a  pair  of  first-rate  spectacles  on  his 
forehead,  and  a  tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob, 
rather  than  doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  would 
have  believed  in  a  conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of 
all  the  clocks  and  watches  in  the  city,  and  even  of  the 
very  Sun  itself.  Such  as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in 
the  shop  and  parlor  behind  the  little  midshipman,  for 
years  upon  years;  going  regularly  aloft  to  bed  every 
night  in  a  howling  garret  remote  from  the  lodgers, 
where,  when  gentlemen  of  England  who  lived  helow  at 
ease  hadlittle  or  no  idea  of  the  state  of  the  weather,  it 
often  blew  great  guns. 

It  is  half-past  five  o'clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon, 
when  the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted. 
Solomon  Gills  ia  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by 
the  unimpeachable  chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clear- 
ance has  ueen  making  in  the  citjj^  for  an  hour  or  more; 
and  the  human  tide  is  still  rolling  westward.  "The 
streets  have  thinned,"  as  Mr.  Gills  says,  "very  much," 
It  threatens  to  be  wet  to-night.  All  the  weather-glasses 
in  the  shop  are  in  low  spirits,  and  the  rain  already  shines 
upon  the  cocked  hat  of  the  wooden  midshipman. 

"Where's  Walter,  I  wonder!"  said  Solomon  Gills, 
after  he  had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  again. 
"Here's  dinner  been  ready,  half  an  hour,  and  no 
Walter!" 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr. 
Gills  looked  out  among  the  instruments  in  the  window, 
to  see  if  his  nephew  might  he  crossing  the  road.  No. 
He  was  not  among  the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  the  newspaper  boy  in  the  oilskin  cap  who 
was  slowly  working  his  way  along  the  piece  of  brass 
outside,  writing  his  name  over  Mr.  Gills'  name  with  Ids 
forefinger. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a 
run  of  it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against 
my  wishes,  I  should  begin  to  be  fidgetty,"  said  Mr.  Gills, 
tapping  two  or  three  weather-glasses  with  his  knuckles. 
"I  really  should.  All  in  the  Downs,  eh!  Lots  of  moist- 
ure!    Well!  it's  wanted." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
glass  top  of  a  compass  case,  "  that  you  don't  point  more 
direct  and  due  to  the  back  parlor  than  the  hoy"R  iw*;\\-^t^- 
tion    does  after  all.     And    the  parlot  co\i\Ari\,  \i^a.t 


38  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

straighter  either.    Due  north.     Not  the  twentieth  part 
of  a  point  either  way." 

"Halloa  Uncle  Sol:" 

"  Halloa  my  boyi "  cried  the  Instrument-maker,  turn- 
ing briskly  round.     '■  What!  you  are  here,  are  you! " 

A  cheerful-looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running 
home  in  the  rain  :  fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly- 
haired, 

■'Well,  uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  witliout  me  all 
day!     Is  dinner  ready?     I'm  ao  hungry." 

"As  to  getting  on,''  said  Solomon  good-naturedly,  "  it 
•  would  be  odd  if  I  couldn't  get  on  without  a  young  dog 
like  you  a  great  deal  better  than  with  you.     As  to  din- 
ner being  ready,  it's  been  ready  this  half  hour  and 
waiting  tor  you.     As  to  being  hungry,  /ami  " 

"  Come  alouff  then,  uncle! "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah 
for  the  admirall" 

"Confound  the  admiral!"  returned  Solomon  Gills. 
"You  mean  the  Lord  Mayor." 

"No  I  don'tl"  cried  the  boy,  "Hurrah  for  the  ad- 
miral.    Hurrah  for  the  admiral!     For — ward!" 

At  this  word  of  command,  the  Welsh  wig  and  its 
wearer  were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back 
parlor,  as  at  the  head  of  a  boarding  party  of  five 
hundred  men;  and  uncle  Sol  and  his  nephew  were 
speedily  engaged  on  a  fried  sole  with  a  prospect  of 
steak  to  follow. 

,    "  The  Lord  Mayor,  Wally,"  said  Solomon,  "for  ever! 
No  more  admirals.     The  Lord  Ma3or's  your  admiral." 

"  Oh,  is  he  though! "  said  the  boy,  shaking  his  head, 
"Why,  the  Sword  Bearer's  better  than  him.  He  draws 
his  sword  sometimes," 

"And  a  pretty  figure  he  cuts  with  it  for  his  pains,"  re- 
turned the  uncle.  "Listen  to  me,  Wally,  listen  to  me. 
Look  on  the  mantel-shelf." 

■■Why  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on  a 
nail!"  exclaimed  tho  hoy. 

"  I  have,"  said  his  uncle.  "  No  more  mugs  now.  We 
must  begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  Walter. 
We  are  men  of  business.  W^e  belong  to  the  city.  We 
started  in  life  this  morning," 

"  Well,  uncle,*' said  the  Doy,  "I'll  drink  out  of  any- 
thing you  like,  so  long  as  I  can  dnnk  to  you.  Here's  to 
you,  Lncle  Sol,  and  hurrah  for  the — " 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  39 

"  Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 

"  For  the  Lord  Mayor,  sheriffs.  Common  Council,  and 
Livery,"  said  the  boy.     "  Long  life  to  'eml  " 

The  uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  "let's  hear  something  about  the 
Firm." 

■*0h:  there's  not  much  to  be  told  about  the  Firm, 
UDcle,"  said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  It's  a 
precious  dark  set  of  officers,  and  in  the  room  where  I 
sit  there's  a  high  fender,  and  an  iron  safe,  and  some 
cards  about  ships  that  are  going  to  sail,  and  an  alma- 
nac, and  some  desks  and  stooft,  and  an  inkbottle,  and 
some  books,  and  some  boxes,  and  a  lot  of  cobwebs, 
and  in  one  of  'em,  just  over  my  head,  a  shrivelled-up 
blue  bottle  that  Iooks  as  if  it  had  hung  there  ever  so 
long." 

"  Nothing  else!'"  said  the  uncle. 

"No,  notning  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder 
how  that  ever  came  there!)  and  a  coal-scuttle." 

"  No  bankern'  books,  or  cheque  books,  or  bills,  or  such 
tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day?  "  said  old 
Sol,  looking  wistfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog  that 
always  seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an  unct- 
uous emphasis  upon  the  words. 

"Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that  I  suppose,"  returned  his 
nephew  carelessly;  "  but  all  that  sort  of  tiling's  in  Mr. 
Carker's  njom.  or  Mr.  Morfin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

■'Has  111-.  Dombey  been  there  to-day?"  inquired  the 
uncle. 

"  Oh  yes!  In  and  out  all  day." 

"  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes  he  did.  He  walked  up  to  my  seat — I  wish  he 
wasn't  80  solemn  and  stiff,  uncle — and  said  'Oh!  you 
are  the  son  of  Mr.  Gills,  the  Ships'  Instrument-maker.' 
'Nephew,  sir.'  I  said.  'I  said  nephew,  boy,' said  he. 
But  i  could  take  my  oath  he  said  son.  uncle." 

"  You're  mistaken  I  dare  say.     It's  no  matter." 

"  No,  it's  no  matter,  but  he  needn't  have  been  so  sharp, 
I  thoueht.  •  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  he  did  say 
son.  Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to  him  about 
me,  and  that  he  had  found  me  employment  in  the 
House  accordingly,  and  that  I  was  expected  to  be  at- 
tentive and  punctual,  and  then  he  went  a.'^a.^^.  \ 
thought  he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  mucin." 


40  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,"  obseived  the  Instrument-* 
maker,  "  that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much. 

"  Well,  uncle,"  returned  the  boy  laughing,  "  Perhaps 
80;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

Solomon  looked  a  little  graver  as  he  finished  his  din- 
ner, and  elanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright 
face.  Wnen  dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared 
away  (the  entertainment  had  been  brought  from  a  ueigh- 
boring  eating-house),  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  went  down 
below  into  a  little  cellar,  while  his  nephew,  standing  on 
the  mouldy  staircase,  dutifully  held  tne  light.  After  a 
moment's  groping  here  and  there,  he  presently  returned 
with  a  very  ancient-looking  bottle,  covered  with  dust 
and  dirt. 

"Why,  Uncle  Sol!"  said  the  boy,  "what  are  you 
about  1  that's  the  wonderful  Madeira! — there's  only  one 
more  bottlel " 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  he  knew 
very  well  what  he  was  about;  and  having  drawn  the 
cork  in  solemn  silence,  filled  two  glasses  and  set  the 
bottle  and  a  third  clean  glass  on  the  table. 

"  You  shall  drink  the  other  bottle,  Wally,"  he  said, 
"  when  you  come  to  good  fortune;  when  you  are  & 
thriving,  respected,  happy  man;  when  the  start  in  life 

Sou  have  made  to-day  shall  have  brought  you,  as  I  pray 
[eaven  it  may  I — to  a  smooth  part  of  the  course  you 
have  to  run.  my  child.    My  love  to  you! "     ^ 

Some  of  the  fog  that  hung  about  old  Sol  seemed  to 
have  got  into  his  throat:  for  he  spoke  huskily.  His 
hand  shook  too,  as  he  clinked  his  ^lass  agamst  his 
nephew's.  But  having  once  got  the  wmg  to  his  lips,  he 
tossed  it  off  like  a  man,  and  smacked  them  afterwards. 

■'  Dear  uncle,"  said  the  hoy.  affecting  to  make  light  of 
it,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  "  for  the  honor  you 
have  done  me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  I  shall  now  beg  to 
propose  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  with  three  times  three  and 
one  cheer  more.  Hurrah!  and  you'll  return  thanks, 
uncle,  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle  together;  won't 
you?" 

They  clinked  their  glasses  again;  and  Walter,  who 
was  hoarding  his  wine,  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  held  the 
glass  up  to  liis  eye  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could 
possibly  assume. 

His  uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  41 

When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  pursue 
the  theme  that  had  occupied  liis  thoughts,  aloua,  as  if 
he  had  been  speakina:  all  the  while. 

"  You  see,  Walter,  '  he  said,  "  in  truth  this  business 
is  merely  a  habit  with  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  the 
habit  that  I  could  hardly  live  if  I  relinquished  it;  but 
there's  nothing  doing,  nothing  doing.  When  that  uni- 
form was  worn,"  pointing  out  towards  the  little  mid- 
shipman, "then  indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made,  and 
were  made.  But  competition,  competition — new  inven- 
tion, new  invention — alteration,  alteration — the  world's 
gone  past  me.  I  hardly  know  where  I  am  myself; 
much  less  where  my  customers  are." 

"  Never  mind  'em,  uncle!  " 

"  Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-Bchool 
at  Peckhara,  for  instance — and  that's  ten  days,"  said 
Solomon,  "I  don't  remember  more  than  one  person  that 
has  come  into  the  shop." 

"  Two,  uncle,  don't  you  recollect?  There  was  the  man 
who  came  to  ask  for  change  for  a  sovereign — " 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Solomon. 

"Why  unclel  don't  you  call  the  woman  anybody, 
who  came  to  ask  the  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike?  " 

"Oh!  it's  true,"  said  Solomon,  "I  forgot  her.    Two 


i'To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  anything,"  cried  the 
boy. 

"  No.  They  didn't  buy  anything,"  said  Solomon, 
quietly. 

"  Nor  want  anything,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop," 
said  Solomon,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  But  there  were  two  of  'em,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  as 
if  that  were  a  great  triumph.     "  You  said  only  one." 

"Well,  Wally,"  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  short 
pause:  "  not  being  like  the  savages  who  came  on  Robin- 
son Crusoe's  island,  we  can't  live  on  a  man  who  asks 
for  change  for  a  sovereign,  and  a  woman  who  inquires 
the  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike.  As  I  said  just  now,  the 
world  nas  gone  past  me.  I  don't  blame  it;  but  I  no 
longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen  are  not  the  same  as 
they  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not  the  same,  business 
is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are  not  the  same. 
Seven-eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned.    Ywav^a. 


*ii  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a  street 
that  is  not  the  same  as  I  remember  it.  I  have  fallen 
behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  it  a^ain.  Even 
the  noise  it  makes,  a  long  way  ahead,  confuses  me." 

Waiter  was  going  to  apeak,  but  his  uncle  held  up  his 
hand. 

"  Therefore  Wally — therefore  it  is  that  I  am  aJixious 
you  should  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the 
world's  track.  I  am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business — 
its  substance  vanished  long  ago:  and  when  I  die  its 
ghost  will  be  laid.  As  it  is  clearly  no  inheritance  for 
you  then  I  have  thought  it  best  to  use,  for  your  advan- 
tage, almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  old  connexion 
that  stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some  people 
suppose  me  to  be  wealthy.  I  wish  for  your  sake,  they 
were  right.  But  whatever  I  leave  behind  me,  or  what- 
ever I  can  give  you,  you  in  such  a  house  as  Oombey's 
are  in  the  road  to  use  well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be 
diligent,  try  to  like  it.  my  dear  boy,  work  for  a  steady 
independence,  and  be  happy!  " 

'■  111  do  everything  I  can.  uncle,  to  deserve  your  affec- 
tion.    Indeed  I  will,  '  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Solomon.  "■  I  am  sure  of  it."  and 
he  applied  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  the  old  Madeira, 
with  mcreased  relish.  "As  to  the  sea,"  he  pursued, 
'■  that's  well  euough  in  fiction,  Wally,  but  it  won't  do 
in  fact:  it  won't  do  at  all.  It's  natural  enough  that  you 
should  think  about  it,  associating  it  with  all  these 
familiar  things;  but  it  wou't  do,  it  won't  do." 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy 
enjovment,  as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though;  and  looked 
on  the  seafaring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressible 
complacency. 

"Think  of  this  wine  for  instance,'"  said  old  Sol, 
■'  which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm  not 
able  to  say  how  often,  and  has  been  once  round  the 
world.  Think  of  the  pitch-dark  nights,  the  roarhig 
winds  and  rolling  seas — " 

"The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storms  of  all 
kinds,"  said  the  boy. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon.  —  "that  this  wine  has 
passed  through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creaking 
of  timbers  and  masts:  what  a  whistling  and  howling 
of  the  gale  through  ropes  and  rigging:" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  43 

"What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each 
other  who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  the 
icy  sails,  while  the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad!" 
cried  his  nephew, 

"Exactly  bo,"  said  Solomon:  "has  gone  on,  over  the 
old  cask  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  the  Charming 
Sally  went  down  in  the — " 

"In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  night;  five-and- 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve,  when  the  captain's  watch 
stopped  in  his  pocket;  he  lying  dead  against  the  main- 
mast— on  the  fourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty- 
nine!  "  cried  Walter,  with  great  animation. 

"Ay,  to  be  Burel"  cried  old  Sol,  "quite  right!  Then, 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard;  and 
all  hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two 
seamen,  and  a  lady,  in  a  leaky  boat),  going  to  work  to 
stave  the  casks,  got  drunk  and  died  drunk,  singing 
'Rule  Britannia,'  when  she  settled  and  went  down,  and 
ending  with  one  awful  scream  in  chorus." 

"But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore, 
uncle,  on  the  coast  of  Cornwall,  in  a  dismal  gale  two 
hours  before  daybreak,  on  the  fourth  of  March,  'sev- 
enty-one, she  ha&  near  two  hundred  horses  aboard;  and 
the  horses  breaking  loose  down  below,  early  in  the  gale, 
and  tearing  to  and  fro,  and  trampling  each  other  to 
death,  made  such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human  cries, 
that  the  crew  believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils, 
some  of  the  beat  men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  over- 
board in  despair,  and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last, 
to  tell  the  tale." 

"And  when."  said  old  Sol,  "when  the  Polyphemus— " 

"Private  West  India  Trader,  burden  three  hundred 
and  fifty  tons,  Captain,  John  Brown  of  Deptford.  Own- 
ers, Wiggs  &  Co.,    cried  Walter. 

"  The  same."  said  Sol ;  "  when  she  took  fire,  four  days' 
sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbor,  in  the 
night — "' 

"There  were  two  brothers  on  board."  interposed  his 
nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  "and  there  not 
bemg  room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn't 
swamped,  neither  of  them  would  consent  to  go,  until 
the  elder  took  the  younger  by  the  waist,  and  filing  him 
in.  And  then  the  younger,  rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out. 
'Dear  Edward,  thmk  of  your  promiseA  ■w\ie  a.Wc>"K\e. 


44  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

I'm  only  a  boy.  No  one  waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap 
down  into  my  place!'  and  Hung  himself  in  the  sea." 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  color  of  the  boy, 
who  had  risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what 
he  said  and  felt,  seemed  to  remind  old  Sol  of  something 
he  had  forgotten,  or  that  his  encircling  mist  had  hither- 
to shut  out.  Instead  of  proceeding  with  any  more  anec- 
dotes, as  he  had  evidently  intended  but  a  moment 
before,  he  gave  a  short  dry  cough,  and  said,  "Well! 
suppose  we  change  the  subject." 

Tne  truth  was,  that  the  simple-minded  uncle  in  his 
secret  attraction  towards  the  marvellous  and  adventur- 
ous—of which  he  was,  in  some  sort,  a  distant  relation, 
by  his  tradt — -had  greatly  encouraged  the  same  attrac- 
tion in  -the  nephew;  and  that  everything  that  had  ever 
been  put  before  the  boy  to  deter  him  from  a  life  of 
adventure  had  had  the  usual  unaccountable  effect  of 
sharpening  his  taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable.  It  would 
seem  as  if  there  never  was  a  book  written,  or  a  story 
told,  expressly  with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore, 
which  did  not  lure  and  ciiarm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  ap- 

Eearance,  in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  in  a  wide  suit  of 
lue,  with  a  hook  mstead  of  a  hand  attached  to  his 
ri^ht  wrist;   very  bushy  black  eyebrows;  and  a  thick 


stick  in  his  left  hand,  covered  all  over  (like  his  nose) 
with  knobs.  He  wore  a  loose  black  silk  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  and  such  a  very  large  coarse  shirt 
collar,  that  it  looked  like  a  small  saiL  He  was  evi- 
dently the  person  for  whom  the  spare  wine-glass  was 
intended,  and  evidently  knew  it;  for  having  taken  off 
his  rough  outer  coat,  and  hung  up,  on  a  particular  peg 
behind  the  door,  such  a  hard  glazed  hat  as  a  sympa- 
thetic person's  head  might  acTie  at  the  sight  of,  and 
which  left  a  red  rim  round  his  own  forehead  as  if  he 
had  been  wearing  a  tij^ht  basin,  he  brought  a  chair  to 
where  the  clean  glass  was,  and  sat  himself  down  behind 
it.  He  was  usually  addressed  as  Captain,  this  visitor; 
and  had  been  a  pilot,  or  a  skipper,  or  a  privateersman, 
or  ail  three  perhaps;  and  was  a  very  salt-looking  man 
indeed.- 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a  brown  solidity,  bright- 
ened as  he  shook  hands  with  uncle  and  nephew:  l>ut 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  45 

he  seemed  to  be  of  a  laconic  disposition,  and  merely 
said: 

"How  goes  it'r" 

"  All  well,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  towards 
him. 

He  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelt  it,  said 
with  extraordinary  expression: 

"The?" 

"  The"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and 
seemed  to  think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

"  Warr!"  he  said,  arranging  hishair  (which  was  thin) 
with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  Instrument- 
maker.  "Look  at  him!  Love!  Honor!  And  Obey! 
Overhaul  your  catechism  till  you  find  that  passage,  and 
when  found  turn  the  leaf  down.     Success,  my  boyi" 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied  both  with  his  quotation 
and  his  reference  to  it  that  he  could  not  help  repeating 
the  words  again  in  a  low  voice,  and  saying  he  had  for- 
gotten 'em  these  forty  year. 

"But  I  never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life 
that  I  didn't  know  where  t«  lay  my  hand  upon  'era, 
Gills,"  he  observed.  "  It  comes  of  not  wasting  language 
as  some  do." 

The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  had  bet- 
ter, like  young  Norval's  father,  "increase  his  store." 
At  any  rate  he  became  silent,  and  remained  ho,  until 
old  Sol  went  out  into  the  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he 
turned  to  Walter,  and  said,  without  any  introductory 
remark : 

"  I  suppose  he  could  make  a  clock  if  he  tried?" 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the 
boy. 

"And  it  would  go!"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a 
species  of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  "  Lord,  how 
that  clock  would  go!" 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contem- 
plating the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  l>oy  as  if  his  face  were  the  tual. 

"  Bathe's  chockfull of  science,"  h«  observed,  waving 
his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  "  Look  'ye  here! 
Here's  a  collection  of  'em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It's 
all  one.  Only  say  where  you'll  have  it.  Uv  in.  e.  bal- 
loon ■■    There  you  are.    Down  in  a  \)e\\?    IVvctqio-m.  wf*. 


46  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

D'ye  want  to  put  the  North  Star  in  a  pair  of  scalea,  and 
weigh  it?    He  11  do  it  for  you." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain 
Cuttle's' reverence  for  the  stock  of  inBtrumcnts  was  pro- 
founii,  and  that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinc- 
tion between  trading  in  it  and  inventing  it. 

■'  Ah!"  he  Raid,  with  a  sigh,  "it's  a  fine  thing  to  un- 
derstan<l  'em.  And  yet  it's  a  fine  thing  not  to  understand 
'em.  I  liardly  know  which  is  best.  It's  so  comfortable 
to  sit  here  and  feel  that  you  might  be  weighed,  meas- 
ured, magnified,  electrified,  polarized,  played  the  very 
devil  with:  and  never  know  how." 

Nothing  short  of  the  wonderful  Madeira,  combined 
with   the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  im- 

firove  and  expand  Walter's  mind),  could  have  ever 
oosened  his  tongue  to  the  extent  of  giving  utterance  to 
this  prodigious  oration.  He  seemed  quite  amazed  him- 
self at  the  manner  in  which  it  opened  up  to  view  the 
sources  of  the  taciturn  delight  lie  had  had  in  eating 
Sunday  dinners  in  that  parlor  for  ten  years.  Becoming 
a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man.  he  mused  and  held  hia  peace. 

"  Cornel  "  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  return- 
ing. "Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog.  Ned,  we 
must  finish  the  bottle." 

"Stand  by!"  said,  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  "Give  the 
boy  some  more." 

"  No  more,  thank'e,  uncle!  " 

■'  Yes,  yes,"  said  Sol.  "a  little  more.  We'll  finish  the 
bottle,  to  the  House,  Ned— Walter's  house.  Why  it 
may  be  hi.s  house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who 
knows?  Sir  Richard  Whittington  married  nis  master's 
daughter." 

"  '  Turn  again  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it,'  " 
interposed  the  Captain.  "Walrl  Overhaul  the  book, 
iny  lad." 

■  And  although  Mr.  Dombey  hasn't  a  daughter,"  Sol 
■  began. 

■Yes  yes,  he  has,  uncle,"  said  the  boy.  reddening 
and  laughing. 

"Has  he?  '  cried  the  old  man.  "Indeed  I  think  he 
has  too." 

"Oh!  I  know  he  has,"  said  the  boy.  "Some  of  'em 
were  talking  about  it  in  the  office  to-day.     And  they  do 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  47 

say,  uncle  and  Captain  Cuttle,"  lowering  his  voice, 
■'  that  he's  taken  a  dislike  to  her,  and  that  she's  left, 
unnoticed,  among  the  servants,  and  that  his  mind's  so 
set  all  the  while  upon  having  his  son  in  the  House,  that 
although  he's  only  a  baby  now  he  is  going  to  have  bal- 
ances struck  oftener  than  formerly,  and  the  books  kept 
closer  than  they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been  seen 
(when  he  thought  he  wasn't)  walking  in  the  Docks, 
looking  at  his  snips  and  property  and  all  that,  as  if  he 
waa  exulting  like  over  what  ne  and  liis  son  will  possess 
together.  That's  what  they  say.  Of  course  I  don't 
know." 

"  He  knows  all  about  her  already,  you  see,"  eaid  the 
Instrument-maker. 

"  Nonsense,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy.  still  reddening  and 
laughing,  boy-like.  How  can  I  help  hearing  what  they 
tell  me?  ' 

"  The  son's  a  little  in  our  way  at  present,  I'm  afraid, 
Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  luimoring  tbe  joke. 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  captain. 

"Nevertheless,  we'll  drink  him,"  pursued  Sol.  "So, 
here's  to  Dombey  and  Son." 

'■  Oh,  very  well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  merrily.  "  Since 
you  have  introduced  the  mention  of  lier,  and  have  con- 
nected me  with  her,  and  have  said  that  I  know  all 
about  her,  I  shall  make  bold  to  amend  the  toast.  So 
here's  to  Dombey — and  Son — and  Daughter!  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  progeess  and  chri3TENING. 

LiTTLS  Paul,  suffering  no  contamination  from  the 
blood  of  the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every  . 
day.  Every  day,  too,  ne  was  more  and  more  ardently 
cherished  by  Miss  Tox,  wh(»se  devotion  was  so  far  ap- 
preciated by  Mr.  Dombey  that  ho  began  to  regard  her 
as  a  woman  of  great  natural  good  sense,  whose  feelings 
did  her  credit  and  deserved  encouragement.  He  was 
so  lavish  of  this  condescension  that  he  no\  oiiVg  \«s^fe&. 


48  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  her.  in  a  particular  maQner,  on  several  occasionB,  but 
even  entrusted  such  stately  recognitions  of  her  to  his 
sister  as  "  pray  tell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very 
good,"  or  "mention  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I  am 
obliged  to  her;"  specialties  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
siou  on  the  lady  thus  distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  was  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs. 
Chick,  that  "  nothine  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all 
connected  with  the  aevelopment  of  that  sweet  child;" 
and  an  observer  of  Miss  Tox's  proceedings  might  have 
inferred  so  much  without  declaratory  confirmation. 
She  would  preside  over  the  innocent  repasts  of  the 
young  heir  with  ineffable  satisfaction,  almost  with  an 
air  of  joint  proprietorship  with  Richards  in  the  enter- 
tainment. At  the  little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and 
toilette,  she  assisted  with  enthusiasm.  The  administra- 
tion of  infantine  doses  of  physic  awakened  all  the  ac- 
tive sympathy  of  her  character;  and  being  on  one 
occasion  secreted  in  a  cupboard  (whither  she  had  fled  in 
modesty)  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  introduced  into  the 
nursery  by  his  sister,  to  behold  his  son  in  the  course  of 
preparation  for  bed,  taking  a  short  walk  up-hill  over 
Ricnard's  gown,  in  a  short  and  airy  linen  jacket.  Miss 
Tox  was  so  transported  beyond  the  ignorant  present  as 
to  be  unable  to  refrain  from  crying  out,  "'  Is  he  not 
beautiful,  Mr.  Dombey?  Is  he  not  a  Cupid,  sir-""  and 
then  almost  sinking  behind  the  closet  door  with  confu- 
sion and  blushes. 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day,  to  his  sister,  "  I 
really  think  I  must  present  your  friend  with  some  little 
token,  on  the  occasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She  has 
exerted  herself  so  warmly  in  the  child's  behalf  from  the 
first,  and  seems  to  understand  her  position  so  thoroughly 
(a  very  rare  merit  in  this  world,  I  am  sorry  to  say), 
that  it  would  really  be  agreeable  to  me  to  notice  her. 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox 
to  hint  that  in  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others 
_  that  occasionally  see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that 
'  mighty  piece  of  knowledge,  the  understanding  of  their 
own  position,  who  showed  a  fitting  reverence  for  his. 
It  was  not  so  much  their  merit  that  they  knew  them- 
selves as  that  they  knew  him,  and  bowed  low  before 
him. 

"My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "you  do  Miss 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  49 

Tox  but  justice,  as  a  man  of  your  penetration  was  sure, 
I  knew,  to  do.  I  believe  if  there  are  three  words  in  the 
English  language  for  which  she  has  a  respect,  amount- 
ing almost  to  veneration,  those  words  are,  Dombey  and 
Son.'.' 

"  Well,"8aid  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  believe  it.  It  does  Miss 
Tox  credit." 

"  And  as  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  token,  my  dear 
Paul,"  pursued  his  sister,  "  all  I  can  say  is  that  anything 
you  give  Miss  Tox  will  be  hoarded  and  prized.  I  am 
sure,  like  a  relic.  But  there  is  a  way,  my  dear  Paul,  of 
showing  your  sense  of  Miss  Tox's  friendliness  in  a  still 
more  flattering  and  acceptable  manner,  if  you  should  be 
so  inclined."' 

"  How  is  that?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey, 

"Godfathers,  of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  "are 
important  in  point  of  connexion  and  influence." 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey  coldly. 

"  Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with 
an  extraordinary  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the  sud- 
denness of  her  conversion;  "  and  spoken  like  yourself. 
I  might  have  expected  nothing  else  from  you.  I  might 
have  known  that  such  would  nave  been  your  opinion. 
Perhaps;"  here  Mrs.  Chick  flattered  again,  as  not  quite 
comfortably  feeling  her  way;  "perhaps  that  is  a  reason 
why  you  might  have  the  less  objection  to  allowing  Miss 
Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the  dear  thing,  if  it  were  only 
as  deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one  else.  That  it  would 
be  received  as  a  great  honor  and  distinction,  Paul,  I  need 
not  say. " 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  aftera  short  pause,  "  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed — " 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  antici- 
pate a  refusal,  "  I  never  thought  it  was." 

Mr,  Dombey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"  Don't  flurry  me,  my  dear  Paul,"  said  his  sister;  "  for 
that  destroys  me,  I  am  far  from  strong,  I  have  not 
been  (^ite  myself  since  poor  dear  fanny  departed." 

Mr,  Dombey  glanced  at  the  pocket-handkerchief  which 
his  sister  applied  to  her  eye?,  and  resumed: 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I  say — " 

"And  I  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  "ihaA  \.  "(veN^t 
thought  it  waa. " 


fiO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Good  Heaven,  Louisa!"  said  Mr.  Dombej;. 

"No,  my  dear  Paul,"  she  remonstrated  with  tearful 
dignity,  "I  must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I  am  not 
so  clever,  or  so  reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  anything, 
as  you  are.  I  know  that  very  well.  So  much  the  worse 
for  me.  But  if  they  were  the  last  words  I  had  to  utter—. 
and  last  words  should  be  very  solemn  to  you  and  me. 
Paul,  after  poor  dear  Fanny— I  should  still  say  I  never 
thought  it  was.  And  what  is  more,"  added  Mrs.  Chick 
with  increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her  crush- 
ing argument  until  now,"  I  never  did  think  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,"  he  said  (Mrs.  Chick 
had  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast,  and  repeated  "  I  know 
it  isn't,"  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  "  but  that  there  are 
many  persons  who,  supposing  that  I  recognized  any 
L'laim  at  all  in  such  a  case,  have  a  claim  upon  me  su- 
perior to  Miss  Tox's.  But  I  do  not.  1  recognise  no  such 
thing.  Paul  and  myself  will  be  able,  when  the  time 
<'ome6,  to  hold  our  own — the  house,  in  other  words,  w^ill 
be  able  to  hold  its  own,  and  maintain  its  own,  and  hand 
down  its  own  of  itself,  and  without  any  such  common- 
place aids.  The  kind  of  foreign  help  which  people 
usually  seek  for  their  children,  I  can  afford  to  despise; 
being  above  it,  I  hope.  So  that  if  Paul's  infancy  and  cnild- 
hooa  pass  away  well,  and  I  see  him  becoming  qualified 
without  waste  of  time  for  the  career  on  which  he  is  des- 
tined to  enter,  I  am  satisfied.  He  will  make  what 
powerful  friends  he  pleases  in  after-life,  when  he  is 
actively  maintaining — and  extending,  if  that  is  pos- 
sible— the  dignity  and  credit  of  the  Firm.  Until  then, 
I  am  enough  for  him,  perhaps,  and  all  in  all.  I  have  no 
wish  that  people  should  step  in  between  us.  I  would 
much  rather  show  my  sense  of  the  obliging  conduct  of  a 
deserving  person  like  your  friend.  Therefore  let  it  be  so; 
;md  your  husband  and  myself  will  do  well  enough  for 
the  other  sponsors.  I  suppose." 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great 
majesty  and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed 
the  secret  feelings  of  his  breast.  An  indescribable  dis- 
_  trust  of  anybody  stepping  iq  between  himself  and  his 
'  son;  a  haughty  dread  of  navmg  any  rival  or  partner  in 
the  boy's  respect  and  deference;  a  sharp  misgiving,  re- 
cently acquired,  that  he  was  not  infallible  in  his  power 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  51 

of  bending  and  liinding  human  wills;  aa  sharp  a  jealousy 
of  any  second  check  or  cross;  these  were,  at  that  time, 
the  master  keys  of  his  soul  In  all  his  life,  he  had 
never  made  a  friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature  had 
neither  sought  one,  nor  found  one.  And  now,  when 
that  nature  concentrated  its  whole  force  so  strongly  on 
a  partial  scheme  of  parental  interest  and  ambition,  it 
seemed  as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of  being  released 
by  this  influence,  and  running  clear  and  free,  had 
thawed  for  but  an  instant  to  admit  its  burden,  and  then 
frozen  with  it  into  one  unyielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothership  of  little  Paul,  in 
virtue  of  her  insignificance.  Miss  Tox  was  from  that 
hour  chosen  and  appointed  to  office;  and  Mr.  Dombey 
further  signified  his  pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already 
long  delayed,  should  take  place  without  further  post- 
ponement. His  sister,  who  had  been  far  from  antici- 
pating so  signal  a  success,  withdrew  as  soon  as  she 
could,  to  communicate  it  to  her  best  of  friends;  and  Mr. 
Dombey  was  left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  anything  but  solitude  in  the  nursery;  for 
there,  Mrs.  Chicle  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a  social 
evening,  so  much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  fiusan  Nipper 
that  that  young  ladv  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
making  wry  faces  beTtiind  the  door.  Her  feelings  wfere 
8C  much  excited  on  the  occasion  that  she  found  it  in- 
dispensable to  afford  them  this  relief,  even  without  hav- 
ing the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy  whatever. 
As  the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds  by 
carving  their  mistress's  names  in  deserts  and  wilder- 
nesses, and  other  savage  places  where  there  was  no 
probabilitv  of  there  ever  being  anybody  to  read  them, 
f-')  did  Miss  Susan  Nipjier  curl  her  snub  nose  into 
drawers  and  wardrobes,  put  away  winks  of  disparage- 
ment in  cupboards,  shed  derisive  squints  into  stone  pitch- 
ers, and  contradict  and  call  names  out  in  the  passage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfully  unconscious 
of  the  young  lady's  sentiments,  saw  little  Paul  safe 
through  all  the  stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise,  sup- 
per and  bed;  and  then  sat  down  to  tea  I)efore  the  fire. 
The  two  children  now  lay.  through  the  good  offices  of 
Pollv,  in  one  room:  and  it  was  not  until  the  ladies  were 
established  at  their  tea-table  that,  hapneniug  to  Vw^VlVs- 
wards  the  iittle  beds,  they  thought  of  TVoreTvce, 


52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  How  sound  she  sleeps! "  said  Miss  Tox. 

'■  Why,  you  know,  my  dear,  she  takes  a  great  deal  of 
exercise  in  the  course  of  the  day,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  playing  about  little  Paul  so  much." 

"  She  IS  a  curious  child,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"My  dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  iu  a  low  voice; 
"  Her  mama,  all  over! " 

"  In-deed  I "  said  Miss  Tox.     "  Ah  dear  mel " 

A  tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox 
said  it  in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except 
that  it  was  expected  of  her. 

"Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a  Dombey," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  not  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand 
years  old." 

Miss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  again  full 
of  commiseration. 

*■  I  quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  a  sigh  of  modest  merit.  '*  I  really  don't  see 
what  is  to  become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or 
what  position  she  is  to  take.  She  don't  gain  on  her 
papa  m  the  least.  How  can  one  expect  she  shouhl, 
when  she  is  so  very  unlike  a  Dombey?" 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such 
a  cogent  argument  as  that,  at  all. 

"And  the  child,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  deep 
confidence,  '"has  poor  Fanny's  nature.  She'll  never 
make  an  effort  in  after-life,  ril  venture  to  say.  Neverl 
She'll  never  wind  and  twine  herself  about  her  papa's 
heart  like—" 

"Like  the  ivy?"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"Like  the  ivy,"  Mrs.  Chick  assented.  "  Neverl  She'll 
never  glide  and  nestle  into  the  bosom  of  her  papa's 
affections  like — the — " 

••  Startled  fawn?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  Like  the  startled  fawn,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Neverl 
Poor  Fanny!    Yet  how  I  loved  herl " 

"  You  must  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  in  a  soothing  voice.  "Now,  really!  You  have  too 
much  feeling." 

"  We  have  all  our  faults,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  weeping 
and  shaking  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  we  have.  I  never 
was  blind  to  hers.  I  never  said  I  was.  Far  from  it. 
Yet  how  1  loved  her!" 

What  a  satisfaction  it  was  to  Mr.s.  Chick — a  commo- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  53 

place  piece  of  folly  enougrh,  compared  with  whom  her 
flister-m-law  had  been  a  very  angel  of  womanly  intelli- 
gence and  gentleness— to  i)atronise  and  be  tender  to  the- 
memory  of  that  lady :  in  exact  pursuance  of  her  conduct 
to  her  in  her  life-time:  and  to  thoroughly  believe  her- 
self, and  take  herself  in,  and  make  herself  uncommonly 
comfortable  on  the  strength  of  her  toleration!  What  a 
mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration  should  be  when  we 
are  right,  to  be  bo  very  pleasant  when  we  are  wrong,  and 
quite  unable  to  demonstrate  how  we  come  to  be  invested 
with  the  privilege  of  exercising  it! 

Mrs.  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her 
head,  when  Kichards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss 
Florence  was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed.  She  had 
risen,  as  the  nurse  said,  and  tlie  lashes  of  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  But  no  one  saw  them  glistening  save 
Polly.  No  one  else  leant  over  her,  and  wnispered  sooth- 
ing words  to  her,  or  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  flutter 
of  ner  beating  heart. 

"Oh!  dear  nursel"  said  the  child,  looking  earnestly 
up  in  her  face,  "  let  me  he  by  my  brother! " 

"  Why,  my  pet?"  said  Ricnards. 

"  Oh!  I  think  he  loves  me,"  cried  the  child  wildly. 
"  Let  me  lie  by  him.    Pray  dol  " 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words  alxmt 
going  to  sleep  like  a  dear,  but  Florence  repeated  her  sup- 
plication, with  a  frightened  look,  and  in  a  voice  broken 
by  sobs  and  tears. 

"  I'll  not  wake  him,"  she  said,  covering  her  face  and 
hanging  down  her  head.  "  I'll  only  touch  him  with  my 
hand,  and  go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray*  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my 
brother,  to-night,  for  I  believe  he's  fond  of  me! '.' 

Richards  took  her  without  a  word  and,  carrying  her 
to  the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  was  sleepmg,  laid 
her  down  by  his  side.  She  crept  as  near  him  as  she 
could  without  disturbing  his  rest;  and  stretching  out 
one  arm  so  that  it  timidly  embraced  his  neck,  and  hiding 
her  face  on  the  other,  over  which  her  damp  and  scat- 
tered hair  fell  loose,  lay  motionless. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  said  Miss  Tox;  "she  has  been 
dreaming,  I  dare  say." 

This  trivial  incident  had  so  interrupted  the  current  of 
conversation  that  it  was  difficult  of  resurn'otiQu-,  k^^ 
Mrs.  Chicfc  moreover  had  been  so  aftecte4  o^  V&.ft  tovi- 


S4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

templation  of  her  own  tolerant  nature  that  she  was  not 
in  spirits.  The  two  friends  accordingly  soon  made  an 
"end  of  their  tea,  and  a  servant  was  dispatched  to  fetch 
a  hackney-cabriolet  for  Miss  Tox,  Miss  Tox  had  great 
experience  in  hackney-cabs,  and  her  starting  in  one  was 
generally  a  work  of  time,  as  she  was  systematic  in  the 
preparatory  arrangements. 

"  Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson."  said 
Miss  Tox,  ''first  of  all  to  carry  out  a  pen  and  ink  and 
take  his  number  legibly." 

■'  Yes,  miss."  said  Towlinson. 

"Then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  have  the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,"  said 
Miss  Tox  apart  to  Mrs.  Chick,  "  is  generally  damp,  my 
dear. " 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"I'll  trouble  you  also,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"with  this  card  and  this  shilling.  He's  to  drive  to  the 
card,  and  is  to  understand  that  he  will  not  on  any  ac- 
count have  more  than  the  shilling." 

"  No,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  And-— I'm  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Tow- 
linson,"—said  Miss  Tox,  loolcing  at  him  pensively. 

"  Not  at  all,  miss,"  said  Towhnaon. 

"  Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson," 
said  Miss  Tox,  "that  the  lady's  uncle  is  a  magistrate, 
and  that  if  he  gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he  will 
be  punished  terribly.  You  can  pretend  to  sav  that,  if 
you  please.  Towlinson,  in  a  friendly  way,  and  because 
you  know  it  was  done  to  another  man,  who  died." 

"  Certainly,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  And  now  good  night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  god- 
son," said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  soft  shower  of  kisses  at  each 
repetition  of  the  adjective;  "  and  Louisa.my  dear  friend, 
promise  me  to  take  a  little  something  warm  before  you 
go  to  bed,  and  not  to  distress  yourself ! " 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper,  the  black- 
eyed,  who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contamed  herself  at 
this  crisis,  and  until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs. 
Chick.  But  the  nursery  being  at  length  free  of  visit- 
ors, she  made  herself  some  recompense  for  her  late  re- 
straint. 

"You  might  keep  me  in  a  straight-waistcoat  for  six 
weeks,"  said  Nipper,  "  and  when  Igot  it  off  I'd  only  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  65 

more  a^prravated — who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them 
two  Griffins,  Mrs.  Richards?" 

"And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poor 
dear!"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  you  beauties!"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to 
salute  the  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed. 
"Never  be  a  Domoey,  won't  she,  it's  to  be  hoped  she 
won't,  we  don't  want  any  more  such,  one's  enough." 

"  Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan  dear,"  said  Folly. 

"I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Susan,  who  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating 
in  her  wrath,  "  and  really  feel  it  as  a  honor  to  receive 

Sour  commands,  being  a  black  slave  and  a  mulotter. 
Irs.  Richards,  if  there's  any  other  orders  you  can  give 
nie,  pray  mention  'em." 

"Nonsense;  orders,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh!  bless  your  heart.  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan, 
"temporaries  always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn't 
you  know  that,  why  wherever  was  you  horn,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards? But  wherever  you  was  horn,  Mrs.  Richards," 
i-ontinued  Spitfire,  shaking  her  head  resolutely,  "  and 
whenever,  and  however  {which  is  best  known  to  your- 
:.elf ),  you  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it's  one  thing 
to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take  'em.  A 
person  may  tell  a  person  to  dive  off  a  Lridge  head  fore- 
most into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Itfrs.  Richards, 
but  a  person  may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

"There  now,"  said  Polly,  "you're  angry  because 
you're  a  good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence; 
and  you  turn  round  on  me,  because  there's  nobody  else." 

"It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and 
be  soft-spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,'  returned  Susan,  slightly 
mollified,  "when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a 
prince,  and  is  petted  and  patted  till  it  wishes  its  friends 
further,  but  when  a  sweet  young  pretty  innocent,  that 
never  ought  to  have  a  cross  word  spoken  to  or  of  it,  is 
run  down,  the  case  is  very  different  indeed.  My  good- 
ness gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,  you  naughty,  sinful  child, 
if  you  don't  shut  your  eyes  this  minute,  I'll  call  in  them 
hoDgoblins  that  lives  in  the  cock-lo£t  to  come  and  eat 
you  up  alive!" 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a  horrible  lowing,  supposed 
to  issue  from  a  conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species, 
impatient  to  discharge  the  severe  duty  ot  \i.\s\io&iM\«».. 


56  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Having  further  composed  her  young  charge  by  covering 
her  head  with  the  bedclothes,  and  making  three  or  four 
angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her  arms,  and 
screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  was  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  "to 
take  a  deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little  notice 
of  all  this  as  of  the  preparatious  for  his  christening  on 
the  next  day  but  one;  which  nevertheless  went  on 
about  him,  as  to  his  personal  apparel,  and  that  of  his 
sister  and  the  two  nurse.s,  with  great  activity.  Neither 
did  he,  on  the  arrival  of  the  appointed  morning,  show 
any  sense  of  its  importance;  bemg,  on  the  contrary,  un- 
usually inclined  to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined  to  take 
it  ill  in  his  attendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-grey  autumnal  day,  with  a 
shrewa  east  wind  blowing— a  day  in  keeping  with  the 
proceedings.  Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  Inmself  the 
wind,  the  shade,  and  the  autumn  of  the  christening. 
He  stood  in  his  library  to  receive  the  company,  as  hard 
and  cold  as  the  weather;  and  when  he  looked  out 
through  the  glass  room,  at  the  trees  in  the  little  garden, 
their  brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  fluttering  down,  as 
if  he  blighted  them. 

Ughl  They  were  black,  cold  rooms;  and  seemed  to 
be  in  mourning,  like  the  inmates  of  the  house.  The 
books  precisely  matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in 
line,  like  soldiers,  looked  in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery 
uniforms  as  if  they  had  but  one  idea  among  them,  and 
that  was  a  freezer.  The  bookcase,  glazed  and  locked, 
repudiated  all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  bronze  on  the 
top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin  about  him. 

Siarded  the  unattainable  treasure  like  an  enchanted 
oor.  A  dusty  urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up  from  an 
ancient  tomb,  preached  desolation  and  decay,  as  from 
two  pulpits:  and  the  chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr. 
Dombey  and  his  portrait  at  one  dIow,  seemed  fraught 
with  melancholy  meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a 
nearer  relationship  tlian  anything  else  there  to  Mr, 
Dombey,  with  his  buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his 
heavy  gold  watch-chain,  and  his  creaking  boots.  But 
this  was  before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs,  Chick,  his 
lawful  relatives,  who  soon  presented  themselves. 


DOMBBY  AND  SON.  57 

'■My  dear  Paul,"  Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  em- 
braced him,  "  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many  joyful 
days!" 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly. 
"  How  do  you 'do,  Mr.  John?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir,"  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dorabey  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  it 
might  electrify  him.  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were 
a  fish,  or  seaweed,  or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and 
immediately  returned  it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

"Perhaps,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sligntly  turn- 
ing his  head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a  socket,  "you 
would  have  preferred  a  fire?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Paul,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had 
much  ado  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering;  "not  for 
me." 

"  Mr.  John."  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  not  sensible 
of  any  chill?" 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  over  the  wrists,  and  was  on  the  very  threshold 
of  that  same  canine  chorus  which  had  given  Mrs.  Chick 
so  much  offence  on  a  former  occasion,  protested  that  he 
was  perfectly  comfortable. 

He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  With  my  tiddle  tol  toor 
rul  "—when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towliu- 
son,  who  announced: 

"MissTox!" 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a  blue  nose  and  in- 
describably frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very 
thinly  clad  in  a  maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do 
honor  to  the  ceremonv. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Tox?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox  m  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes  went 
down  altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting  up;  she 
curtseyed  so  low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr,  Dombey's 
advancing  a  step  or  two  to  meet  her. 

"  I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox. 
softlv.  "  'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I  can 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses." 

If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her 
senses,  it  was  a  very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear. 
She  took  an  early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  circula- 
tion in  the  tip  of  her  nose  by  secretly  chafing  it-^WEv 
her  pocket-hankerchief,  lest,  by  ita  vety  io^w  XjetK^t^- 


58  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ti're,  it  should  disagreeably  astonish  the  baby  when  she 
came  to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  great  glory  by 
Richards;  while  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active 
young  constable,  Susan  Nipper,  brought  up  the  rear. 
Thougli  the  whole  nursery  party  were  dressed  oy  this  time 
in  lighter  mourning  than  at  nrst,  there  was  enough  in 
the  appearance  of  the  bereaved  child  to  make  the  day 
no  brighter.  The  baby  too — it  might  have  been  Miss 
Tox's  nose — began  to  cry.  Thereby,  as  it  happened, 
preventing  Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  fulfilment  of 
a  very  honest  purpose  he  had;  which  was,  to  make 
much  of  Florence.  For  this  gentleman,  insensible  to 
the  superior  claims  of  a  perfect  Dombev  (perhaps  on 
account  of  having  the  honor  to  be  united  to  a  Dombey 
himself,  and  being  familiar  with  excellence),  really  liked 
her,  and  showed  that  he  liked  her,  and  was  about  to 
show  it  in  his  qgfn  way  now,  when  Paul  cried,  and  his 
helpmate  stopped  him  short. 

•'  Now  Florence  child! "  said  her  aunt,  briskly,  "  what 
are  you  doing,  love?  Show  yourself  to  him.  Fngage 
his  attention,  my  dear!" 

The  atmosphere  became,  or  might  have  become, 
colder  and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly 
watching  his  little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands, 
and  standing  on  tip-toe  before  the  throne  of  his  son 
■  and  heir,  lured  him  to  bend  down  from  his  high  estate, 
and  look  at  her.  Some  honest  act  of  Richards'  may 
have  aided  the  effect,  but  he  did  look  down,  and  held 
his  peace.  As  his  sister  hid  behind  her  nurse,  he  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes;  and  when  she  peeped  out  with 
■V  merry  cry  to  him,  lie  sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily — 
laughingoutrightwhen  sne  ran  in  upon  him;  and  seem- 
ing to  fondle  her  curls  with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she 
:>mothered  him  with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this?  He  testified  no 
pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve;  but  outward 
tokens  of  any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him. 
If  any  sunbeam  stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children 
at  their  play,  it  never  reached  his  face.  He  looked  on 
BO  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the  warm  light  vanished 
even  from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Florence,  when, 
-  at  last,  they  happened  to  rneet  his. 

It  was  a  dull,  grey,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  59 

minute's  pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves 
fell  sorrowfully. 

"  Mr,  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watcL. 
and  assuming  his  hat  and  gloves,  "take  my  sister,  if 
you  please:  my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox's.  Tou  had 
better  go  first  with  Master  Paxil,  Richards.  Be  very 
careful.  ' 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Miss  Tox, 
Mrs,  Chick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a  little  car- 
riage following  it,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner  Mr. 
Chick.  Susan  looking  out  of  window,  without  inter- 
mission, as  a  relief  from  the  embarrassment  of  confront- 
ing the  large  face  of  that  gentleman,  and  thinking 
whenever  anything  rattled  that  he  was  putting  up  in 
paper  an  appropriate  pecuniary  compliment  for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church.  Mr.  Dombey  clapped 
hie  hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  which  in- 
stance of  parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted. 
But  exclusive  of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  christening  party  and  a  party  in  a  mourning 
coach  consisted  in  the  colors  of  the  carnage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  stops,  they  were  received  by  a 
portentous  beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to 
nelp  the  ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church 
door,  looked  like  another  beadle.     A  beadle   less  gor- 

ieous.  but  more  dreadful;  the  beadle  of  private  life; 
e  beadle  of  our  busineRs  and  our  bosoms. 

Miss  Tox's  band  trembled  as  she  slipped  it  through 
Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  and  felt  herself  escorted  up  the 
steps,  preceded  by  a  cocked  hat  and  a  Babylonian  col- 
lar. It  seemed  for  a  moment  like  that  other  solemn  in- 
stitution, ■•  Wilt  thou  have  this  man,  Lucretia?  "  "  Yes, 
I  will." 

'•  Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  air 
there,"  whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  inner 
door  of  the  cnurch. 

Little  Paul  might  have  asked  with  Hamlet  "  into  my 
grave? "  so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall 
shrouded  pulpit  and  reading-desk:  the  dreary  perspec- 
tive of  empty  pews  stretching  away  under  the  galleries, 
and  empty  benclies  mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  iu  the 
shadow  of  the  great  grim  organ;  the  dusty  matting  and 
cold  stone  slabs;  the  grisly  free  seats  in  the  aisles;  and 
the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope,  wheie  tt\e  \)\atV\sfe?.- 


s; 


60  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sels  used  for  funerals  were  stowed  away,  along  with 
some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a  coil  or  two  of  deadly- 
looking  rope;  the  strange,  unusual,  uncomfortable  smell, 
and  the  cadaverous  light;  were  all  in  unison.  It  was  a 
cold  and  dismal  scene. 

■'There's  a  wedding  just  on,  sir,"  said  the  beadle, 
"but  it'll  be  over  directly,  if  you'll  walk  into  the  westry 
here." 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr. 
Dombey  a  bow  and  a  half  smile  of  recognition,  import- 
ing that  he  (the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  attendinjj  on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife, 
and  hoped  he  had  enjoyed  himself  since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  in 
front  of  the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bride- 
groom too  young,  and  a  superannuated  beau  with  one 
eye  and  an  eye-^ass  stuck  in  its  blank  companion,  was 

fiving  away  the  lady,  while  the  friends  were  shivering, 
n  the  vestry  the  fire  was  smoking;  and  an  over-aged 
and  over-worked  and  under-paid  attorney's  clerk, 
"making  a  search,"  was  running  his  forefinger  down 
the  parchment  jja^es  of  an  immense  register  (one  of  a 
long  series  of  similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials. 
Over  the  fire-place  was  a  ground-plan  of  the  vaults  un- 
derneath the  church;  and  Mr.  Chick,  skimming  the 
literary  portion  of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  enlivening  the 
company,  read  the  reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  tomb  in 
full,  before  he  could  stop  himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a  wheezy  little  pew- 
opener  afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the 
churchyard,  if  not  to  the  church,  summoned  them  to 
the  font.  Here  they  waited  some  little  time  while  the 
marriage  party  enrolled  themselves;  and  meanwhile  the 
wheezy  little  pew-opener — partly  in  consequence  of  her 
infirmity,  ana  partly  that  tne  marriage  party  might  not 
forget  her — went  about  the  building  coughing  like  a 
grampus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object 
there,  and  he  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a  pug  of 
warm  water,  and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into 
the  font,  about  taking  the  chill  off;  which  millions  of 

fallons  boiling  hot  could  not  have  done  for  the  occasion, 
hen  the  clerg3'man,  an  amiable  and  mild-looking  young 
curate,  but  obviously  afraid  of  the  baby,  appeared  like 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  61 

the  priucipal  character  in  a  ghost-story,  "  a  tall  figure 
all  in  white; "  at  sight  of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with 
hie  cries,  and  never  left  off  again  till  he  was  taken  out 
black  in  the  face. 

Even  when  that  event  bad  happened,  to  the  great  re- 
lief of  everybody,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico, 
during  the  rest  of  the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now 
louder,  now  hushed,  now  bursting  forth  again  with  an 
irrepressible  sense  of  bis  wrongs.  This  so  distracted  the 
attention  of  the  two  ladies  tliat  Mrs.  Chick  was  con- 
stantly deploying  into  the  centre  aisle  to  send  out  mes- 
sages by  the  pew-opener,  while  Miss  Tox  kept  her 
prayer-book  open  at  tne  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  occasion- 
ally read  responses  from  that  service, 

During  the  whole  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dombey 
remained  as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and 
perhaps  assisted  in  making  it  so  cold  that  the  young 
curate  smoked  at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  The  only  time 
that  he  unbent  his  visage  in  the  least  was  when  the 
clergyman,  in  delivering  (very  unaffectedly  and  siin- 
plyj  the  closing  exhortation  relative  to  the  future  ex- 
amination of  the  child  by  the  sponsors,  happened  to 
rest  his  eye  on  Mr.  Chick;  and  then  Mr.  Dombey  might 
have  been  seen  to  express  by  a  majestic  look  that  he 
would  like  to  catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr,  Dombey  if  he  had 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  a  little  less;  and  had  thought 
of  the  great  origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony,  in 
which  ne  took  so  formal  and  so  stiff  a  part,  a  little 
more.  His  arrogance  contrasted  strangely  with  its 
history. 

When  it  was  all  over,  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Miss 
Tox,  and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry,  where  he  in- 
formed the  clergyman  how  much  pleasure  it  would 
have  given  him  to  have  solicited  the  honor  of  his  com- 
pany at  dinner,  but  for  the  unfortunate  state  of  house- 
hold affairs.  The  register  signed,  and  the  fees  paid,  and 
the  pew-owner  (whose  cough  was  very  bad  again)  re- 
membered, and  the  beadle  gratified,  and  the  sexton 
(who  was  accidentally  on  the  door-steps,  looking  with 
great  interest  at  the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they  got 
into  the  carriage  again,  and  drove  home  in  the  same 
bleak  fellowship. 
-  There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  \v\ft  w;=,e  a.\.  ft. 


62  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cold  collation.  Bet  forth  in  a  cold  pomp  of  glass  and  sil- 
ver, and  looking  more  like  a  dead  dinner  lying  in  Btate 
than  asocial  refreshment.  On  their  arrival,  MisB  Tox 
produced  a  mug  for  her  godson,  and  Mr.  Chick  a  knife 
and  fork  and  spoon  in  a  case.  Mr.  Bombey  also  pro- 
duced a  bracelet  for  Miss  Tox;  and,  on  the  receipt  of 
this  token.  Miss  Tox  was  tenderly  affected. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Domhey,  "  will  you  take  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  if  you  please.  What  nave  you  got 
there,  Mr.  John?" 

"I  have  got  a  cold  fillet  of  veal  here,  sir,"  replied 
Mr.  Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together. 
"What  have  yon  got  there,  sir?  " 

"This."  returned  Mr,  Dombey,  "  is  some  cold  prepara- 
tion of  calf's  head,  I  think.  I  see  cold  fowls— ham — 
patties — salad — lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the  honor 
of  taking  some  wine?    Champagne  to  Miss  Tox." 

There  was  a  toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was 
so  bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a  little  scream  from  Miss 
Tox,  which  she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a 
"Hem!"  The  veal  had  come  from  such  an  airy  pan- 
try that  the  first  taste  of  it  had  struck  a  sensation  as  of 
cold  lead  to  Mr.  Chick's  extremities.  Mr.  Dombey  alone 
remained  unmoved.  He  might  have  been  hung  up  for 
sale  at  a  Kussian  fair  as  a  specimen  of  a  frozen  gentle- 
man. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  too  much  even  for  his 
sister.  She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small-talk, 
and  directed  all  her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she 
could. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a  desperate 
phmge.  after  alongsilence,  and  fillingaglassof  snerry; 
•'I  shall  drink  this,  if  you'll  allow  me,  sir,  to  little 
Paul." 

"Bless  him!"  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a  sip. of 
wmc. 

"Dear  little  Dombey! "  murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity, 
' '  my  son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obligea  to  you, 
I  have  no  doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favor  you 
have  done  him.  He  will  prove,  in  time  to  come.  I  trust, 
equal  to  any  responsibility  that  the  obliging  disposition 
of  his  relations  and  friends,  in  private,  or  the  onerous 
nature  of  our  position,  in  public,  may  impose  upon  him»" 


DOMBEY  AND  SOS.  &.i 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing 
more,  Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence. 
Not  so  Miss  Tox.  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey 
w^ith  even  a  more  emphatic  attention  than  usual,  and 
with  a  more  expressive  tendency  of  her  head  to  one 
side,  now  leant  across  the  table,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick 
softly : 

'■Louisal" 

*'  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may — I 
have  forgotten  the  exact  term." 

"  Expufie  him  to,"  said  Mrs.  Cliick. 

"  Pardon  me.  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "I  think 
not.  It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  dis- 
position of  relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous 
nature  of  position  in  public— may — impose  upou  him?" 

"Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure."'  said  Mrs.  Chick, 

Mi.s8  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly, 
in  triumph;  and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  -eloquent 
indeed! ' 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  issued  orders  for 
the  attendance  of  Richards,  who  uow  entered  curtsey- 
ing, but  without  the  baby;  Paul  being  asleep  after  the 
fatigues  of  the  morning,  Mr.  Dombey,  liaviug  deHv- 
erea  a  glass  of  wine  to  this  vassal,  addressed  her  in  the 
following  words:  Miss  Tox  previously  settling  her  head 
on  one  side,  and  making  other  little  arrangements  for 
engraving  them  on  her  heart, 

"  During  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have 
seen  you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your 
duty.  Desiring  to  .connect  some  little  service  to  you 
with  this  occasion,  I  considered  how  I  could  best  effect 
that  object,  and  1  also  advised  with  my  sister  Mrs.  — " 

"  Chick,"  interposed  the  gentleman  of  that  name, 

'■  Oh.  hush  if  you plea.ie.''*  said  Miss  Tox. 

'■  I  was  about  to  say  to  you.  Richards,"  resumed  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  an  appalling  glance  at  Mr.  John,  "that 
I  was  further  assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  conversation  I  held  with  your  husband  in  this 
room,  on  the  occasion  of  your  being  hired,  when  he 
disclosed  to  me  the  melancholy  fact  that  your  family, 
himself  at  the  head. were  sunk  and  steeped  in  ignorance," 

Richards  quailed  under  the  maguificeace  of  tlift  '^t- 
proof. 


64  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  am  far  from  being  friendly,"  pnrBiied  Mr.  Dombey, 
"to  what  is  called  by  persons  of  levelling  sentiments, 
general  education.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the  inferior 
classes  should  continue  to  be  taught  to  know  their  posi- 
tion, and  to  conduct  themselves  properly.  So  far  I  ap- 
prove of  schools.  Having  the  power  of  nominating  a 
child  on  the  foundation  of  an  ancient  establishment, 
called  (from  a  worshipful  company)  the  Charitable 
Grinders;  where  not  only  is  a  wholesome  education  be- 
stowed upon  the  scholai^,  but  where  a  dress  and  badge 
is  likewise  provided  for  them;  I  have  (first  communicat- 
ing, through  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  nominated 
your  eldest  son  to  an  existing  vacancy;  and  he  has  this 
day,  I  am  informed,  assumed  the  habit.  The  number 
of  her  son,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  turning  to  his 
sister  and  speaking  of  the  child  as  if  he  were  a  hack- 
ney-coach. "  is  one  hundred  and  forty-seven.  Louisa, 
you  can  tell  her," 

"  One  hundred  and  forty-seven,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 
"  The  dress,  Richards,  is  a  nice,  warm,  blue  baize  tailed 
coat  and  cap,  turned  up  with  orange-colored  binding; 
red  worsted  stockings;  and  very  strong  leather  small- 
clothes. One  might  wear  the  articles  one's-self,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusiasm,  "and  be  grateful." 

"There.  Richards!"  said  Mrs.  Tox.  "Now,  indeed, 
you  mat/  be  proud.     The  Charitable  Grinders! " 

"I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged,  sir,"  returned 
Richards  faintly,  "and  take  it  very  kind  that  you 
should  remember  my  little  ones,'*  At  the  same  time  a 
vision  of  Biler  as  a  Charitable  Grinder,  with  his  very 
small  legs  encased  in  the  serviceable  clothing  described 
by  Mrs.  Chick,  swam  before  Richards"  eyes,  and  made 
them  water. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  "feeling, 
Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of 
human  nature,  "  that  there  mav  yet  be  some  faint  spark 
of  gratitude  and  right  feehng  in  the  world." 

Richards  deferred  to  these  compliments  by  curtseying 
and  murmuring  her  thanks:  but  finding  it  quite  impos- 
sible to  recover  her  spirits  from  the  disorder  mto 
which  they  had  been  thrown  by  the  image  of  her  son 
in  his  precocious  nether  garments,  she  gradually  ap- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  65 

proached  tho  door  and  was  heartily  relieved  to  escape 
by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a  partial  thaw  that  had 
appeared  with  her,  vanished  with  her;  and  the  frost  set 
in  again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick  was 
twice  heard  to  hum  a  tune  at  the  bottom  of  the  table, 
but  on  both  occasions  it  was  a  fragment  of  the  Dead 
March  in  Saul.  The  party  seemed  to  get  colder  and 
colder,  and  to  be  gradually  resolving  itself  into  a  con- 
gealed and  solid  state,  like  the  collation  round  which  it 
was  assembled.  At  length  Mrs,  Chick  lo^ed  at  Miss 
Tox,  and  Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and  they  both 
rose  and  said  it  wa^  really  time  to  go.  Jlr.  Dombey  re- 
ceiving this  announcement  with  perfect  equanimity, 
they  took  leave  of  that  gentleman,  and  presently  de- 
parted under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick;  who,  when 
they  had  turned  their  backs  upon  the  house  and  left  its 
master  in  his  usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  threw  himself  back  in  tne  carriage,  and 
whistled  "  With  a  hey  ho  chevy!"  all  through;  convey- 
ing into  his  face  as  he  did  so  an  expression  of  such 
gloomy  and  terrible  defiance  that  Mrs.  Chick  dared  not 
protest,  or  in  any  way  molest  him. 

Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could 
not  forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrateT 
ful;  but  the  influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the  Chari- 
table Grinders,  and  she  could  hardly  help  regarding 
his  pewter  badge,  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven, 
as,  somehow,  a  part  of  its  formality  and  sternness.  She 
spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of  his  "  blessed  legs,"  and  was 
again  troubled  by  his  spectre  in  uniform. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  giv^"  said  Polly,  "  to 
see  the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  'em.*' 

'■  Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,"  retorted 
Nipper,  who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence,  "  see 
him  and  make  your  mind  easy." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  wouldn't  he.  Mrs.  Richards!"  retorted  Nipper. 
"  he'd  like  it  very  much,  I  think,  when  he  was  asked." 

"You  wouldn't  ask  him,  I  suppose,  at  all?  "said  Polly. 

"  No.  Mrs,   Richards,  guite  the  coutrairy."  returned 
Susan,  "and  them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  uot 
intending  to  he  on  duty  to-morrow,  as  1  Ueaxd^ ' ettv  ?a?j> 
me  and  Miss  Floy  will  go  along  with.  ^ouVj-To.OTC'y* 


66  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

morning,  and  welcurne,  Mrs.  Kicbards,  if  you  like,  for 
we  may  as  well  walk  there  as  up  and  down  a  street,  and 
better  too.'' 

Polly  rejected  tbeidea  pretty  stoutly  at  firet:  but  by 
little  and  little  ulie  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  enter- 
tained more  and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  pictures 
of  her  children,  and  her  own  home.  At  length,  arguing 
that  there  eould  bo  no  great  hami  in  calling  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  door,  she  yielded  to  the  Nipper  proposition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  Began  to  cry 
most  piteousty,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  no  good 
would  come  of  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child? "  asked  Susan. 

"  He's  cold,  I  think,"'  said  Polly,  walking  with  him  to 
and  fro,  and  hushhig  him. 

It  was  a  bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed;  and  as  she 
walked,  and  hushed,  and.  glancing  through  the  dreary 
windows,  pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  her  breast, 
the  withered  leaves  came  showering  down. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PAUL'S  SECOND   DEPRIVATION. 

Polly  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the 
morning  that,  but  for  the  iuces-sant  promptings  of  her 
black-eyed  companion,  she  would  have  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  the  ttxpedition.  and  formally  petitioned  for 
leave  to  see  number  one  hundred  and  forty -seven  under 
the  awful  shadow  of  Mr.  Domi>ey"8  roof.  But  Susan, 
who  was  personally  disposed  in  favor  of  the  excursion, 
and  who  (like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she  could  bear  the 
disappointments  of  other  people  with  tolerable  forti- 
tude, could  not  abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so 
many  ingenious  doubts  in  tlie  way  of  this  second 
thought,  and  stimulated  the  original  intention  with  so 
many  ingenious  argtiments,  that  almost  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Domoey's  stately  back  was  turned,  and  that  gentleman 
was  pursuing  his  daily  road  towards  the  city,  his  uncon- 
scious son  was  on  hia  way  to  Staggs's  Gardens. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Cr 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situatod  in  a  suburb, 
known  by  the  inhabitants  of  Stage's  Gardens  by  the 
name  of  Camberling  Town;  a  designation  which  the 
Strangers'  Map  of  London,  as  printed  (with  a  view  to 
pleasant  and  commodious  reference)  on  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, condenses,  with  some  show  of  reason,  into 
Camden  Town.  Hither  the  two  nurses  bent  their  steps, 
accompanied  by  their  charges;  Richards  carrying  Paul, 
of  course,  and  Busan  leading  little  Florence  by  the 
hand,  and  giving  her  such  jerks  and  pokes  from  time  to 
time,  as  she  considered  it  wholesome  to  administer. 

The  first  shock  of  a  great  earthquake  had,  just  at 
that  period,  rent  the  whole  neighbornood  to  its  centre. 
Traces  of  its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses 
were  knocked  down;  streets  broken  through  and 
stopped;  deep  pits  and  trenches  dug  in  the  ground; 
enormous  heaps  of  earth  and  clav  thrown  up;  build- 
ings that  were  undermined  and  snaking,  propped  by 
great  beams  of  wood.  Here,  a  chaos  of  carts,  over- 
thrown and  jumbled  together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at  the 
bottom  of  a  steep  unnatural  hill;  there,  confused  treas- 
ures of  iron  soaked  and  rusted  in  something  that  had 
accidentally  become  a  pond.  Everywhere  were  bridges 
that  led  nowhere;  thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  im- 

Eassable;  Babel  towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  their 
eight:  temporary  wooden  houses  and  enclosures,  in 
the  most  unlikely  situations;  carcases  of  ragged  tene- 
ments, and  fragments  of  unfinished  walls  and  arches, 
and  piles  of  scaffolding,  and  wildernesses  of  bricks, 
and  giant  forms  of  cranes,  and  tripods  straddling  above 
nothmg.  There  were  a  hundred  thousand  shapes  and 
substances  of  incompleteness,  wildly  mingled  out  of 
their  places,  upside  down,  burrowing  in  the  earth,  as- 

fitring  in  the  air,  mouldering  in  the  water,  and  unintel- 
igible  as  any  dream.  Hot  springs  and  fiery  eruptions, 
the  usual  attendants  upon  earthquakes,  lent  their  con- 
tributions of  confusion  to  the  scene.  Boiling  water 
hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapidated  walls;  whence, 
also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  flames  came  issuing  forth: 
and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up  rights  of  way,  and 
wholly  changed  the  law'  and  custom  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  nntl  uno^ieTveA.  tw\\\».m[\\ 
was  in  progress;  and,  from  the  very  core  ot  a\\  ^V\?.  (Vw** 


m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

disorder,  trailed  smoothly  away,  upou  its  mighty  course 
of  civilisation  and  improvement. 

But  as  yet,  the  neighborhood  was  shy  to  own  the 
Railroad. "  One  or  two  bold  speculators  nad  projected 
streets;  and  one  had  built  a  little,  but  had  stopped 
among  the  mud  and  ashes  to  consider  farther  of  it.  A 
bran-new  tavern,  redolent  of  fresh  mortar  and  size, 
and  fronting  nothing  at  all,  had  taken  for  its  sign  The 
Railway  Arms;  but  that  might  be  rash  enterprise — and 
then  it  hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen.  So,  the 
Excavators'  House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a  beer 
shop;  and  the  old-established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had 
become  the  Railway  Eating  House,  with  a  roast  leg  of 
pork  daily,  through  interested  motives  of  a  similar 
immediate  and  popular  description.  Lodging-house 
keepers  were  favorable  in  like  manner;  and  for  the  like 
reasons  were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  general  belief  was 
"very  slow.  There  were  frowzy  fields,  and  cowhouses, 
and  dunghills,  and  dustheaps,  and  ditches,  and  gardens, 
and  summer-houses,  and  carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the 
very  door  of  the  railway.  Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells " 
in  the  oyster  season,  and  of  lobster  shells  in  the  lobster 
season,  and  of  broken  crockery  and  faded  cabbage 
leaves  in  all  seasons,  encroached  upon  its  high  places. 
Posts,  and  rails,  and  old  cautions  to  trespassers,  and 
backs  of  mean  houses,  and  patches  of  wretched  vegeta- 
tion, stared  it  out  of  countenance.  Nothing  was  the 
better  for  it,  or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the  miserable 
waste  ground  lying  near  it  could  nave  laughed,  it  would 
have  laughed  it  to  scorn,  like  many  of  the  miserable 
neighbors. 

Staggs's  Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredulous.  It 
was  a  little  row  of  houses,  with  little  squalid  patches  of 
ground  before  them,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel 
staves,  scraps  of  tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes;  with  bot- 
tomless tin  kettles  and  exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust 
into  the  gaps.  Here,  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  trained 
scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected  rotten 
summer-houses  (one  was  an  old  boat),  dried  clothes,  and 
smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of  opinion  that  Staggs's  Gar- 
dens derived  its  name  from  a  deceased  capitalist,  one 
Mr,  Stages,  who  liad  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Others, 
wlio  had  a  natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that  it 
dated  from  those  rural  times  when  the  antlered  herd, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  C9 

under  the  familiar  denomination  of  Staggses,  had  re- 
sorted to  its  shady  precincts.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Staggs's 
Gardens  was  reganied  by  its  population  as  a  sacred 
grove  not  to  be  withered  by  railroads;  and  so  confident 
were  they  generally  of  its  long  outhving  any  such  ridic- 
ulous inventions,  that  the  master  chimney-sweeper  at 
the  comer,  who  was  understood  to  take  the  lead  in  the 
local  politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  publicly  declared  that 
on  the  occa&ion  of  the  railroad  opening,  if  ever  it  did 
open,  two  of  his  boys  should  ascend  the  flues  of  his 
dwelling,  with  instructions  to  hail  the  failure  with  de- 
risive jeers  from  the  chimney  pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  which  had 
hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dombey 
by  his  sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fate  and 
Kichards. 

"  That's  my  house,  Susan,"  said  Polly,  pointing  it  out. 

"Is  it,  inaeedj  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Susan,  conde- 
scendingly. 

"  And  there's  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door.  I  do  de- 
clare," cried  Polly,  "  with  my  own  sweet  precious  bahy 
in  her  arms!" 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  to 
Polly's  impatience,  that  she  set  off  down  the  Gardens 
at  a  run,  and  bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with 
her  in  a  twinkling;  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that 
young  damsel,  on  whom  the  heir  of  the  Dombeys  seemed 
to  have  fallen  from  the  clouds. 

"Why,  Polly!"  cried  Jemima.  "You!  what  a  turn 
you  have  given  me!  who'd  have  thought  it!  Come  along 
m,  Polly!  How  well  you  do  look  to  he  sure!  The  chil- 
dren will  go  half  wild  to  see  you,  Polly;  that  they  will." 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they 
made,  and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  at  Polly  and 
dragged  her  to  a  low  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  where 
her  own  honest  apple  face  became  immediately  the  cen- 
tre of  a  bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy 
cheeks  close  to  it.  and  all  evidently  the  growth  of  the 
same  tree.  As  to  Polly,  she  was  full  as  noisy  and  vehe- 
ment as  the  children;  and  it  was  not  iintil  she  was  quite 
out  of  breath,  and  her  hair  was  hanging  all  about  her 
flusheil  face,  and  her  new  christening  attire  was  very 
much  dishevelled,  that  any  pause  took  place  \iv  \Xvfe  cw\- 
fusion.     Even  then,  the  smallest  ToodVe  \ju\.  oT\e  te- 


70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

maineti  in  her  lap,  holding  on  tight  with  both  arms 
round  her  neck;  while  the  smallest  Toodle  but  two 
mounted  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  made  desperate 
efforts,  with  one  leg  in  the  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the 
corner. 

"Look!  there's  a  pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you."' 
said  Pollv;  "and  see  how  quiet  she  is!  What  a  beauti- 
ful Uttle  lady,  ain't  she?" 

This  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing 
by  the  door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed 
the  attention  of  the  younger  branches  towards  her;  and 
had  likewise  the  happy  effect  of  leading  to  the  formal 
i^cognition  of  Miss  Nipper,  who  was  not  quite  free  from 
a  misgiving  that  she  had  been  already  slighted. 

■'  Oh  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,  Susan,  please." 
said  Polly,  "This  is  my  sister  Jemima,  this  is.  Jemi- 
ma, I  don't  know  what  I  should  ever  do  with  myself,  if 
it  wasn't  for  Susan  Nipper;  I  shouldn't  be  here  now  but 
for  her." 

•'  Oh  do  sit  down,  Miss  Nipper,  if  'you  please,"  quoth 
Jemima, 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a  chair,  with  a 
stately  and  ceremonious  aspect. 

"  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  all  my  life; 
now  really,  I  never  was,  Miss  Nipper,"  said  Jemima. 

Susan,  relaxing,  took  a  little  more  of  the  chair,  and 
smiled  graciously. 

"  Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  Miss  Nipper,  please,"  entreated  Jemima,  "I'm 
afraid  it's  a  poorer  puwe  than  you're  used  to;  but  you'll 
make  allowances,  Fm  sure." 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  be- 
havior, that  she  caught  up  little  Mi.'is  Toodle  who  was 
running  past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immedi- 
ately. 

"  But  Where's  my  pretty  boy-' "  said  Polly.  " My  poor 
fellow?  I  came  all  this  way  to  see  hiin  in  his  new 
clothes." 

"Ah  what  a  pity!"  cried  Jemima,  "He'll  break  his 
heart,  when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He's 
at  school,  Polly." 

"Gone  already!" 

"  Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  ;>-Psterdav,  for  fear 
he  should  lose  any  learning.      But  it's  a  half-holiday, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  71 

Polly:  if  you  could  only  stop  'till  he  comes  home — you 
and  Mies  Nipper,  leastways,"  said  Jemima,  mindful  in 
good  time  of  tne  dignity  of  the  black-eye<l. 

"  And  how  does  he  look,  Jemima,  bless  him! "  faltered 
Polly. 

"  Well,  really  be  don't  look  so  bad  as  you'd  suppose,' 
returned  Jemima. 

"Ah!"  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  "I  knew  his  le^ 
must  be  too  short." 

"  His  legs  is  short,"  returned  Jemima;  "  especially  be- 
hind; but  they'll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day," 

It  was  a  slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation;  but 
the  cheerfulness  and  good  nature  with  which  it  was  ad- 
ministered gave  it  a  value  it  did  not  intrinsically  pos- 
sess. After  a  moment's  silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a  more 
sprightly  manner; 

"And  Where's  father,  Jemima  dear?" — for  by  that 
patriarchal  appellation,  Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known 
in  the  family. 

"  There  again ! "  said  Jemima.  ' '  What  a  pity!  Father 
took  his  dinner  with  him  this  morning,  and  isn't  coming 
home  till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you,  Polly, 
and  telling  the  children  about  vou;  and  is  the  peace- 
ablest,  patientest,  best  temperedest  soul  in  the  world,  as 
he  always  was  and  will  be! " 

"  Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  Polly;  delighted 
by  the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  tne  absence. 

"Oh  you  needn't  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister, 
giving  her  a  sound  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  and  then  danc- 
mg  little  Paul  cheerfully.  "I  say  the  same  of  you 
sometimes,  and  think  it  too. 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  regard  in  the  light  of  failure  a  visit  which  was 
greeted  with  such  a  reception ;  so  the  sisters  talked  hope- 
fully about  family  matters,  and  about  Biler,  and  about 
all  nis brothers  and  sisters:  while  the  black-eyed,  having 
performed  several  journeys  to  Banbury  Cross  and  back, 
took  sharp  note  of  the  furniture,  the  Dutch  clock,  the 
cupboard,  the  castle  on  the  mantel-piece  with  red  and 
green  windows  in  it,  susceptible  of  illumination  by  a 
candle-end  within;  and  the  pair  of  small  black  velvet 
kittens,  each  with  a  lady's  reticule  in  its  mouth;  re- 
garded by  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  aa  prodigies  ol  VtrnXa.;- 
tivearr.    The  conversatioa  soon  becoming  geTiQ^aXVea^ 


n  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  black-eyed  should  go  off  at  score  and  turn  sarcastic, 
that  young  lady  related  to  Jemima  a  summary  of  every- 
thing she  Knew  concerning  Mr.  Dombey,  his  prospects, 
family,  pursuits,  and  character.  Also  an  exact  inven- 
tory of  her  personal  wardrobe,  and  some  account  of  her 
principal  relations  and  friends.  Having  relieved  her 
mind  of  these  disclosures,  slie  partook  of  shrimps  and 

forter.  and  evinced  a  disposition  to  swear  eternal 
riendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behind-hand  in  im- 
proving the  occasion;  for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the 
young  Toodles  to  inspect  some  toadstools  and  other  cu- 
riosities of  the  Gardens,  she  entered  with  them,  heart 
and  soul,  on  the  formation  of  a  temporary  breakwater 
across  a  small  green  pool  that  had  collected  in  a  comer. 
She  was  still  busily  engaged  in  that  labor,  when  sought 
and  found  by  Susan;  who,  such  was  her  sense  of  duty, 
even  under  the  humanising  influence  of  shrimps,  de- 
livered a  moral  address  to  her  (punctuated  with  thumps) 
on  her  degenerate  nature,  while  washing  her  face  and 
hands;  and  predicted  that  she  would  bring  the  grey 
hairs  of  her  family  in  general,  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
After  some  delay,  occasioned  by  a  pretty  long  confiden- 
tial interview  above  stairs  on  pecuniary  subjects,  be- 
tween Polly  and  Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies  was 
again  effected — for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retai-ied  her 
own  child,  and  Jemima  httle  Paul — and  the  visitors  took 
leave. 

But  firet  the  young  Toodles.  victims  of  a  pious  fraud, 
were  deluded  into  repairing  in  a  body  to  a  chandler's 
shop  in  the  neighborhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of 
spending  a  penny;  and  when  the  const  was  quite  clear, 
Polly  fled:  Jemima  calling  after  her  that  if  tliey  could 
only  go  round  towards  the  City  Road  on  their  way  back, 
Uiey  would  be  sure  to  meet  little  Biler  coming  from 
school. 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a  little 
round  in  that  direction,  Susan?"  inquired  Pofly,  when 
they  halted  to  take  breath. 

*'  Why  not,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan. 

"  It's  getting  ou  towards  our  dinner  time  you  know," 
said  Polly. 

But  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  in- 
different to  this  grave  consideration,  so  she  allowed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7^ 

no  weigbt  to  it,   and    they  resolved  to  go  "a  little 
round." 

Now  it  happened  that  poor  Biler's  life  had  been,  since 
yesterday  morning,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of 
the  Charitable  Gnnders,  The  youth  of  the  streets  could 
not  endure  it.  No  young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to 
bear  its  contemplation  for  a  moment,  without  throwing 
himself  upon  the  unoffending  wearer,  and  doing  him  a 
mischief.  His  social  existence  had  been  more  like  that 
of  an  early  Christian,  than  an  innocent  child  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  '  He  had  been  stoned  in  tlie  streets. 
He  had  been  overthrown  into  gutters;  bespattered  with 
mud;  violently  flattened  against  posts.  Entire  strangers 
to  his  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his  head,  and 
cast  it  to  the  winds.  His  legs  bad  not  only  undergone 
verbal  criticisms  and  revilings,  but  bad  beennandled 
and  pinched.  That  very  morning,  be  had  received  a 
perfectly  unsolicited  black  eye  on  his  way  to  the 
Grinders'  establishment,  and  had  been  punished  for 
it  by  the  master:  a  superannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage 
disposition,  who  had  been  appointed  schoolmaster  be- 
cause he  didn't  know  anything,  and  wasn't  fit  for  any- 
thing, and  for  whose  cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys 
had  a  perfect  fascination. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  Biler.  on  his  way  home,  sought 
unfrequented  paths;  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  pas- 
sages and  back  streets,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being 
compelled  to  emerge  into  the  main  road,  his  ill  fortune 
brought  him  at  last  where  a  small  party  of  boys,  headed 
by  a  ferocious  young  but<5her,  were  lying  in  wait  for 
any  means  of  pleasurable  excitement  that  might  hap- 
pen. These,  finding  a  Charitable  Grinder  in  the  midst 
of  them — unaccountably  delivered  over,  as  it  were,  into 
their  hands—set  up  a  general  yell  and  rushed  upon  him. 

But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  that,  at  the  same  time, 
Polly,  looking  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her. 
after  a  good  hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going 
any  further,  when  suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no 
sooner  saw  it  than,  uttering  a  hasty  exclamation,  and 
giving  Master  Dombey  to  the  black-eyed,  she  started  to 
the  rescue  of  her  unhappy  little  son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The 
astonished  Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  youiv^  c>\!MSy^?. 
were  rescued  by  the  bystanders  from  uniex  Wve  -^'e^ 


74  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wheels  of  a  paesing  carriage  before  they  knew  what 
had  happenea ;  and  at  that  moment  (it  was  market  day) 
a  thundering  alarm  of  "Mad  Bull!"  was  raised. 

With  a  wfld  confusion  before  her,  of  people  running 
up  and  down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over 
them,  and  boys  fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and 
the  nurse  in  the  midst  of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  to 
pieces,  Florence  screamed  and  ran.  She  ran  till  she 
was  exhausted,  urging  Susan  to  do  the  same;  and  then, 
stopping  and  wringing  her  hands  as  she  remembered 
they  had  left  the  other  nurse  behind,  found,  with  a  sen- 
sation of  terror  not  to  be  described,  that  she  was  quite 
alone, 

"Husan!  Susan!"  cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands 
in' the  very  ecstasy  of  her  alarm.  "Oh,  where  are 
they!   where  are  they!" 

"Where  are  they?"  said  an  old  woman,  coming  hob- 
bling across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way.     "Why  did  you  run  away  from  emi"' 

"I  was  frightened,"  answered  Florence,  "I  didn't 
know  what  I  did.  ■  I  thought  they  were  with  me. 
Where  are  they?" 

The  old  woman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  "  I'll 
show  you." 

She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round 
her  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of 
itself  when  she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably 
dressed,  and  carried  some  skins  over  her  arm.  She 
seemed  to  have  followed  Florence  some  little  way 
at  all  events,  for  she  had  lostTier  breath;  and  this  made 
her  uglier-still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it:  working 
her  shrivelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all  sorts  or 
contortions, 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating, 
up  the  street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  the  bot- 
tom. It  was  a  solitary  place — more  a  back  road  than  a 
street — and  there  was  no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the 
old  woman. 

"You  needn't  be  frightened  now,"  said  the  old 
woman,  still  holding  her  tight.  "Come  along  with  me." 

"I — I  don't  know  you.  W^bat's  your  name?"  asked 
Florence. 

"Mrs,  Brown,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Good  Mrs. 
Brown." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  75 

"Are  they  near  here?  "  asked  Florence,  beginning  to 
be  led  away. 

"Susan  an't  far  off,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown;  "and 
the  others  are  close  to  her."' 

"  Is  anybody  hurt? "  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  child  shed  tears  of  delijjlit  on  liearinK  this,  and 
accompanied  the  old  woman  willingly;  though  she  could 
not  help  glancing  at  her  fate  as  they  went  along — par- 
ticularly at  that  industrious  mouth — and  wondering 
whether  Bad  Mrs.  Brown,  if  there  were  such  a  person, 
was  at  all  like  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  vary 
uncomfortable  places,  such  as  brick -helds  aud  tile-yards, 
when  the  old  woman  turned  down  a  dirty  lane,  where 
the  mud  lay  in  deep  black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
She  stopped  before  a  shabby  little  house,  as  closely  shut 
up  as  a  house  tliat  was  full  of  cracks  and  crevices  could 
be.  Opening  the  door  with  a  key  she  took  out  of  her 
bonnet,  she  pushed  the  child  before  her  into  a  back 
room,  where  there  was  a  great  heap  of  rags  of  different 
colors  lying  ou  the  floor;  a  heap  of  bones,  and  a  heap  of 
sifted  dust  or  cinders;  but  there  was  no  furniture  at  all, 
and  the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quite  black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken 
speechless,  and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

"  Now  don't  be  a  young  mule,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 
reviving  her  with  a  shake.  "  I'm  not  a  going  to  hurt 
you.     Sit  upon  the  rags." 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  her  folded  hands,  in 
mute  supplication. 

"  I'm  not  a  going  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  liour," 
said  Mre.  Brown.     "D'ye  understand  what  I  say?" 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  "  Yes." 

"Then,"  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  taking  her  own  seat  on 
the  bones,  "don't  vex  me.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you  I 
won't  hurt  you.  But  if  you  do,  I'll  kill  you.  I  could 
have  you  killed  at  anv  time — even  if  you  was  in  your 
own  bed  at  home,  ifow  let's  know  who  you  are,  and 
what  you  are,  and  all  about  it." 

The  old  woman's  threats  and  promises;  the  dread  of 

fiving  her  offence;  and  the  habit,  unusual  to  a  child, 
ut  almost  natural  to  Florence,  now,  oi  \3y"\n^  c^\»^\,,att&. 
repressinff  what  she  felt,  and  feared,  anA^  \io^?i^,  c^.- 


78  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

abled  her  to  do  this  biddiDg,  and  to  tell  her  little  his- 
tory, or  what  she  knew  of  it.  Mrs.  Brown  listened 
attentively,  until  she  had  finished. 

"  Ho  your  name's  Dombey,  eh'f"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I  want  that  pretty  frock,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  "and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a  petticoat  or 
two,  and  anything  else  you  can  spare.  Come!  Take 
'em  oflf." 

Florence  obeyed  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow;  keeping,  all  the  while,  a  frightened  eye  on  Mrs. 
Brown.  When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the 
articles  of  apparel  mentioned  by  that  ladv.  Mrs.  B.  ex- 
amined them  at  leisure,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  satis- 
fied with  their  quality  and  value. 

"  Humph!  "  she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child's 
slight  figure,  "  I  don't  see  anything  else— except  the 
shoes.    I  must  have  the  shoes,  Miss  Dombey." 

Poor  little  Florence  took  them  off  with  equal  alacrity, 
only  too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation 
about  her.  The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched 
substitutes  from  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which 
she  turned  up  for  that  purpose;  together  with  a  girl's 
cloak,  quite  worn  out  and  very  okl;  and  the  crushed 
remains  of  a  bonnet  that  had  probably  been  picked  up 
from  some  ditch  or  dunghill.  In  this  dainty  raiment, 
she  instructed  Florence  to  dress  herself;  and  as  such 
preparation  seemed  a  prelude  to  her  release,  the  child 
complied  with  increased  readiness,  if  possible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be 
called  a  bonnet  which  was  more  like  a  pad  to  carry 
loads  on,  she  caught  it  in  her  hair  which  grew  luxuri- 
antly, and  could  not  immediately  disentangle  it.  Good 
Mrs.  Brown  whipped  out  a  large  pair  of  scissors,  and 
fell  into  an  unaccountable  state  of  excitement. 

"Why  couldn't  you  let  me  be."  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
"  when  1  was  contented.    You  little  fool! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
done."  panted  Florence.     "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Couldn't  help  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  "How  do 
you  expect  I  can  help  it?"  Why.  Lord!"  said  the  old 
woman,  rufiling  her  curls  with  a  furious  pleasure, 
"anybody  but  me  would  have  had  'em  off  first  of 
all." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ?? 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  her 
hair  and  ndt  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that 
she  offered  no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised 
her  mild  eyes  towards  the  face  of  that  good  soul, 

"  If  I  hadn't  once  had  a  gal  of  my  own — beyond  seas 
now — that  was  proud  of  her  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 
"  I'd  have  had  every  lock  of  it.  She's  far  away,  she's 
far  away!    Oho!   Oho!  " 

Mrs.  Brown's  was  not  a  melodious  cry,  hut,  accom- 
panied with  a  wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arms,  it  was 
full  of  passionate  grief,  and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of 
Florence,  whom  it  frightened  more  than  ever.  It  had 
its  part,  perhaps,  in  saving  her  curls;  for  Mrs.  Brown, 
after  hovering  about  her  with  the  scissors  for  some 
moments,  like  a  new  kind  of  butterfly,  bade  her  hide 
them  under  her  bonnet  and  let  no  trace  of  them  escape 
to  tempt  her.  Having  accomplished  this  victory  over 
herself.  Mrs.  Brown  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bones,  and 
smoked  a  very  short  black  pipe,  mowing  and  mumbling 
all  the  time,  as  if  she  were  eating  the  stem. 

WJien  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child 
a  rabbit-skin  to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  more  like 
her  ordinary  companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now 
going  to  lead  her  to  a  public  street  whence  she  would 
m<)uire  her  way  to  her  friends.  But  she  cautioned  her, 
with  threats  of  summary  and  deadly  vengeance  in  case 
of  disobedience,  not  to  talk  to  stangers,  nor  to  repair  to 
her  own  home  (which  may  have  been  too  near  for  Mrs, 
Brown's  convenience),  but  to  her  father's  office  in  the 
city;  also  to  wait  at  the  street  corner  where  she  would 
be  left,  until  the  clock  struck  three.  These  directions 
Mrs.  Brown  enforced  with  assurances  that  there  would 
be  potent  eyes  and  ears  in  her  employment  cognisant 
of  all  she  did;  and  these  directions  Florence  promised 
faithfully  and  earnestly  to  observe. 

At  length  Mrs.  Brown,  jssuing  forth,  ccinilucted  her 
changed  and  ragged  little  friena  through  a  lahyrintli  of 
narrow  streets  and  lanes  and  allej's  which  emerged, 
after  a  long  time,  upon  a  stable  yard,  with  a  gateway 
■  at  the  encT  whence  the  roar  of  a  great  thoroughfare 
made  itself  audible.  Pointing  out  this  gateway,  and 
informing  Florence  that  when  the  clock  struck  three 
she  was  to  go  to  the  left,  Mrs.  Brown,  aftei  "nvaJtVw*^  ti. 
parting-  graup  at  bvr  hair,  which  seemeA  V\\vcAx\.T\V^"t-j 


7«  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  quite  beyond  her  own  control,  told  her  she  knew 
what  to  do,  and  bade  her  go  and  do  it;  remembering 
that  she  was  watched. 

With  a  lighter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence 
felt  herself  released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  comer. 
When  she  reached  it,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the 
head  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  peeping  out  of  the  low 
wooden  passage,  where  she  had  issued  her  parting  in- 
junctions; likewise  the  fist  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  shak- 
mg  towards  her.  But  though  she  often  looked  back 
afterwards  —  every  minute,  at  least,  in  her  nervous 
recollection  of  the  old  woman — she  could  not  see  her 
again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the 
street,  and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it;  and  in  the 
meanwhile  the  clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their 
minds  never  to  strike  tnree  any  more.  At  last  the 
steeples  rang  out  three  o'clock;  there  was  one  close  by, 
so  sne  couldn't  be  mistakeu;  and — after  often  looking- 
over  her  shoulder,  and  often  going  a  little  way,  and  as 
often  coming  back  again,  lest  the  all-powerful  spies  of 
Mrs.  Brown  should  take  offence— she  Imrried  off,  as  fast 
as  she  could  in  her  slipshod  shoes,  holding  the  rabbit 
skin  tight  in  her  hand. 

Ail  she  knew  of  her  father's  offices  was  that  they  be- 
longed to  Dombey  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a  great 
power  belonging  to  the  city.  So  she  could  only  ask  the 
way  to  Domuey  and  Son's  in  the  city;  and  as  she  gen- 
erally made  inquiry  of  children^being  afraid  to  ask 
grown  people — she  got  very  little  satisfaction  indeed. 
But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to  the  city  after  a  while, 
and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry  for  the  present, 
she  really  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees,  towards  the 
heart  of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by  the 
terrible  Lord  Mayor. 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned 
by  the  noise  and  confusion,  ilnxious  for  her  brother  and 
the  nurses,  terrified  by  what  she  had  undergone,  and 
the  prospect  of  encountering  her  angry  father  in  such 
an  altered  state;  perplexed  and  frightened  alike  by 
what  had  passed,  and  what  was  passing,  and  what  was 
yet  before  her;  Florence  went  upon  her  weary  way 
with  tearful  eyes,  and  once  or  twi(re  could  not  help 
stopping  .to  ease  her  bursting  heart  by  crying  bitterly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7fi 

But  few  people  noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the  garh 
she  wore:  or  if  they  did.  believed  that  she  was  tutored 
to  excite  compassion,  and  passed  on.  Florence,  too, 
called  to  her  aid  all  the  firmness  and  self-reliance  of  a 
character  that  her  sad  experience  had  prematurely 
formed  and  tried;  and  keepintj^  the  end  she  had  in  view 
steadily  before  her,  steadily  pursued  it. 

It  was  full  two  hours  later  lu  the  afternoon  than  when 
she  had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escap- 
ing from  the  clash  and  clangor  of  a  narrow  street  fiill 
of  carts  and  wagons,  she  peeped  into  a  kind  of  wharf 
or  landing-place,  upon  the  river  side,  where  there  were 
a  great  many  packages,  casks,  and  boxes,  strewn  about; 
a  large  pair  of  wooden  scales;  and  a  little  wooden  house 
on  wneels.  outside  of  which,  looking  at  the  neighboring 
masts  and  boats,  a  stout  man  stood  whistling,  with  his 
pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as.  if 
his  day's  work  were  nearly  done. 

"Now  then!  "said  this  man,  happening  to  turn  round. 
"  We  haven't  got  anything  for  you,  little  girl.     Be  off  1 " 

"  If  you  please,  is  this  the  city?"  asked  the  trembling 
daughter  of  the  Dombeys. 

"  Ahl  it's  the  city.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
dare  say.     Be  off!     We  haven't  got  anything  for  you." 

"I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you,"  was  the  timid 
answer,  "except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and 
Son's." 

The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  towards 
her,  seemed  surprised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  attent- 
ively in  her  face,  rejoined: 

•'  Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son's? " 

"To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please. 

The  man  looked  at  her  yet  more  curiously,  and  rubbed 
the  back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wonderment  that  he 
knocked  his  own  hat  oif . 

"Joel"  he  called  to  another  man — a  laborer — as  he 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

"  Joe  it  is! "  said  Joe. 

"  Where's  that  young  spark  of  Dombey's  who's  been 
watching  the  shipment  of  them  goods? " 

"  Just  gone,  by  the  t'other  gate,"  said  Joe. 

"  Cull  him  back  a  minute," 

Joe  ran  up  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  weiitiawiLNCT-g 
soon  returned  with  a  blithe-looking  \)oy. 


80  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

"You're  Dombey's  jockey,  an't  you?"  said  the  first 
man. 

"I'm  in  Dombey's  House,  Mr,  Clark,"  returned  the 
boy, 

"Look'ye,  here,  then,"  said  Mr.  Clark. 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark's  hand,  the 
boy  approached  towards  Florence,  wondering,  as  well 
he  might,  what  he  had  to  do  with  her.  But  she,  who 
had  heard  what  passed,  and  who.  besides  the  relief  of  so 
suddenly  considering  herself  safe  and  at  her  journey's 
end,  felt  reassured  beyond  all  measure  by  his  lively 
youthful  face  and  manner,  ran  eagerly  up  to  him,  leav- 
mg  one  of  the  slipshod  shoes  upon  the  ground  and 
caught  his  hand  in  E>oth  of  hers. 

"I  am  lost,  if  you  pleasel "  said  Florence. 

""Lost! "  cried  the  boy. 

"Yes,  I  was  lost  this  morning,  a  long  way  from  here 
— and  I  liave  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since— and  I 
am  not  dressed  in  my  own  now — and  my  name  is  Flor- 
ence Dombey,  my  little  brother's  only  sister— and,  oh 
dear,  dear,- take  care  of  me,  if  you  please!"  sobbed 
Florence,  giving  full  veut  to  the  childish  feelings  she 
had  so  long  suppressed,  and  bursting  into  tears.  At  the 
same  time  her  mi.serable  bonnet  falling  off,  her  hair 
came  tumbling  down  about  her  face:  moving  to  speech- 
less admiration  and  commiseration,  young  Walter, 
nephew  of  Solomon  Gills,  Ships'  Instrument-maker  in 
general. 

Mr,  Clark  stood  rapt  in  amazement:  observing  under 
his  breath  /  never  saw  such  a  start  on  this  wharf  before. 
Walter  picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  foot 
as  the  Prince  in  trie  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella's 
slipper  on.  He  hung  the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm; 
gave  the  right  to  llorenco:  and  felt  not  to  say  like 
Richard  Whittington — that  is  a  tame  comparison — but 
like  Saint  George  of  England,  with  the  dragon  lying 
dead  before  him, 

■■  Don't  cry.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  in  a  trans- 
port of  enthusiasm,  "What  a  wonderful  thing  for  me 
that  I  am  here.  You  are  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were 
guarded  by  a  whole  boat's  crew  of  picked  men  from  a 
man-of-war.    Oh  don't  cry." 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,  said  Florence.  "  I  am  only 
Trying  for  joy." 

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DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  81 

"Crying  for  joy!"  thought  Walter,  "and  I'm  the 
cause  of  it.  Come  along,  Miss  Dombey.  There's  the 
other  shoe  off  now!    Take  mine.  Miss  Dombey," 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act 
of  impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  "These  do  better. 
These  do  very  well." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot, 
"mine  are  a  mile  too  large.  What  am  I  thinking 
about!  You  never  could  walk  in  mine!  Come  along, 
Miss  Dombey.  Let  me  see  the  villain  who  will  dare 
molest  vou  now." 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence, 
looking  very  happy;  and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along 
the  streets,  perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment 
that  their  appearance  might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  toggj,  and  beginning  to  rain 
too;  but  they  cared  nothing  for  this:  being  both  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she 
related  with  the  innocent  good  faith  and  confidence  <^ 
her  years,  while  Walter  listened  as  if,  far  from  the  mud 
and  grease  of  Thames  street,  they  were  rambling  alone 
among  the  broad  leaves  and  tall  trees  of  some  desert 
islana  in  the  tropics — as  he  very  likely  fancied,  for  the 
time,  they  were. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go?"  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Ah!  By  the  by,"  said  Walter,  stopping,  "  let  me  see* 
where  are  we?  On!  I  know.  But  the  offices  are  shut  up 
now.  Miss  Dombey.  There's  nobody  there.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey has  gone  home  long  ago.  I  suppose  we  must  go 
home  too?  or,  stay.  Suppose  I  take  you  to  my  uncle  s, 
where  I  live — it's  very  near  here — and  go  to  your  house 
in  a  coach  to  tell  them  vou  are  safe,  and  bring  you  back 
some  clothes.     Won't  that  be  best?" 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Florence.  "  Don't  you?  What 
do  you  think?" 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a  man  passed 
them,  who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  he  went  by,  as 
as  if  he  recognised  hini;  but  Reeming  to  correct  that  first 
impression,  he  passed  on  without  stopping. 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter.  "  Car- 
ker  in  our  House.  Not  Carker  our  manager.  Miss 
Dombey — the  other  Carker;  the  junior — Ha.uoa.\  "^t. 
Carker! " 


s-3  ttOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Is  tliat  Walter  Gay?"  said  the  other,  stopping  and 
returning.  "I  couldn't  helieve  it,  with  Buch  a  strange 
companion." 

Ab  he  stood  near  a  lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to 
Walter's  hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a  remark- 
able contrast  to  the  two  youthful  figures  arm-in-arm  he- 
fore  him.  He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was  white;  his 
body  was  bent,  or  bowed  aB  if  by  the  weight  of  some 
great  trouble;  and  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  worn  and 
melancholy  face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expression  of 
his  features,  the  verr  voice  in  which  he  spoke,  were  all 
subdued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within  him  lay 
in  ashes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very  plainly 
dressed  in  black;  but  his  clothes,  moulded  to  the  gen- 
eral character  of  bis  figure,  seemed  to  shrink  and  abase 
themselvea  upon  him,  and  to  join  in  the  sorrowful  solici- 
tation which  the  whole  man  from  head  to  foot  expressed, 
to  be  left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his  humility. 

,  And  yet  his  interest  in  youtli  and  hopefulness  was  not 
extinguished  with  the  otlier  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he 
watched  the  boy's  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  witti 
unusual  sympathy,  though  with  an  inexplicable  show 
of  trouble  and  compassion,  which  escaped  into  his  looks, 
however  hard  he  strove  to  hold  it  prisoner.  When  Wal- 
ter, in  conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question  he  had  put  to 
Florence,  he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the  same 
expression,  as  if  he  read  some  fate  upon  his  face,  mourn- 
fully at  variance  with  its  present  bnghtness. 

"What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker?"  said  Walter, 
smiling.  "  You  always  give  me  good  advice,  you  know, 
when  you  do  speak  to  me.     That  s  not  often,  though," 

"  I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,"  he  answered; 
looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

'•  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a  gener- 
ous thought,  "  Come!  Here's  a  chance  for  you.  Go  you 
to  Mr.  Dombey's,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good  news. 
It  may  do  you  some  good,  sir.  I'll  remain  at  home. 
You  shall  go." 

"  I ! "  returned  the  other. 

"  Yes,     Why  not.  Mr,  Carker?"  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer;  he 
seemed  in  a  manner  a.shamed  and  afraid  even  to  do 
that;  and  bidding  him  good  night,  and  advising  liim  to 
make  haste,  turnetl  away. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  sa 

•'Come,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  looking  after 
him  as  they  turned  away  also,  "we'll  go  to  my  uncle's 
as  quick  as  we  can.  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Dombey 
speak  of  Mr.  Carker  the  ^junior.  Miss  Florence?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  child,  mildly,  *'  I  don't  often  hear 
papa  speak." 

"Ahl  true!  more  shame  for  him,"  thought  Walter. 
After  a  minute's  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing down  upon  tue  gentle  patient  little  face  moving  on 
at  his  side,  he  bestirred  himself  with  his  accustomed 
boyish  animation  and  restlessness  to  change  the  sub- 
ject ;  and  one  of  the  unfortunate  shoes  coming  off  eigain 
opportunely,  proposed  to  carry  Florence  to  his  uncle's 
in  his  arms.  Florence,  though  very  tired,  laughingly 
declined  the  proposal,  lest  he  should  let  her  fall;  ana  as 
they  were  already  near  the  wooden  midshipman,  and 
as  Walter  went  on  to  cite  various  precedents,  from  ship- 
wrecks and  other  moving  accidents,  where  younger 
boys  than  he  had  triumphantly  rescued  and  carried  off 
older  girls  than  Florence,  they  were  still  in  full  conver- 
sation about  it  when  they  arrived  at  the  Instrument- 
maker's  door. 

"  Halloa,  Uncle  Sol!"  cried  Walter,  bursting  into  the 
shop,  and  speaking  incoherently  and  out  of  breath, 
from  that  time  forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
"Here's  a  wonderful  adventure!  Here's  Mr.  Dombey^s 
daughter  lost  in  the  streets,  and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by 
an  old  witch  of  a  woman — found  by  me — brought  home 
to  our  parlor  to  rest —  look  here! " 

'•  Good  Heaven! "'  said  Uncle  Sol,  starting  back 
against  his  favorite  compass-case.     "  It  can't  be!  W^ell, 

"No,  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Walter,  anticipating 
the  rest.  "Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know. 
Here!  just  help  nie  lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will 
you.  Uncle  Sol — take  care  of  the  plates— cut  some  din- 
ner for  her,  will  you,  uncle — throw  those  shoes  under 
the  grate,  Miss  Florence — put  your  feet  on  the  fender 
to  dry  —  how  damp  they  are  —  here's  an  adventure, 
uncle,  eh? — God  bless  my  soul,  how  hot  I  am! " 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in 
excessive  bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence's  head, 
pressed  her  to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rub\ieA^\xeiwA'es, 
of  her  feet  with  his  pocket-handkercUiei  \),ea.\ft^  aX.  ^^ 


84  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fire,  followed  his  locomotive  nephew  with  his  eyes,  and 
ears,  and  had  no  clear  perception  of  anything  except 
that  he  was  being  constantly  knoclied  against  and  tum- 
bled over  by  that  excited  young  gentleman,  as  he  darted 
about  the  room  attempting  to  accomplish  twenty  things 
at  once,  and  doing  nothing  at  all. 

"  Here,  wait  a  minute,  uncle,"  he  continued,  catching 
up  a  candle,  "  till  I  run  up-stairs,  and  get  another 
jacket  on,  and  then  I'll  be  off.  I  say,  uncle,  isn't  this 
an  adventure?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  who,  with  his  spectacles 
•on  his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his  pocket, 
was  incessantly  oscillatmg  between  Florence  on  the 
sofa  and  hia  nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlor,  "  it's  the 
most  extraordinary —  " 

"No,  but  do,  uncle,  please — do.  Miss  Florence — din- 
ner, you  know,  uncle." 

"'tes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into 
a  leg  of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a  giant.  '*  I'll 
take  care  of  her,  Wally!  I  understand.  Pretty  dear! 
Famished,  of  course.  You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord 
bless  me!  Sir  Eichard  Whittington  thrice  Lord  Mayor 
of  Loudon!" 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty 
garret  and  descending  from  it,  but  in  the  mean  time 
Florence,  overcome  by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a  doze 
before  the  fire.  The  short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only 
a  few  minutes  in  duration,  enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far 
to  collect  his  wits  as  to  make  some  little  arrangements 
for  her  comfort,  and  to  darken  the  room,  and  to  screen 
her  from  the  blaze.  Thus,  when  the  boy  returned,  she 
was  sleeping  peacefully. 

"That  8  capital!"  he  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such 
a  hug  that  it  squeezed  a  new  expression  into  his  face. 
"■Now  I'm  oif.  I'll  just  take  a  crust  of  bread  with  me, 
for  I'm  very  hungry — and — don't  wake  her.  Uncle  Sol." 

"No,  no,"  said  Solomon.     "Pretty  child." 

"Pretty,  indeed!"  cried  Walter,  "/never  saw  such 
a  face.  Uncle  Sol.     Now  I'm  off." 

"That's  right,"  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 

"I  say,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  putting  hia  face  in  at 
the  door. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"  said  Solomon. 

"How  does  she  look  now?" 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  85 

"Quite  happy,"  said  Solomon. 

"That's  famous!  now  I'm  off." 

"I  hope  you  are,"  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

"I  say.  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  reappearing  at  the 
door. 

"Here  he  is  again!"  said  Solomon. 

"  "VVe  met  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer 
than  ever.  He  bade  me  good  by,  but  came  behind  ua 
here — there's  an  odd  thingl — for  when  we  reached  the 
shop  door,  I  looked  round,  and  saw  him  going  quietly 
away,  like  a  ser\'ant  who  had  seen  me  home,  or  a  faith- 
ful dog.     How  does  she  look  now,  uncle?" 

"Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wally,"  replied 
Uncle  Sol. 

"  That's  right.    Now  I  am  off! " 

And  this  time  he  really  was:  and  Solomon  Gills, 
with  no  appetite  for  dinner,  sat  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  fire  watching  Florence  in  her  slumber,  buihl- 
ing  a  great  niany  airy  castles  of  the  most  fantastic 
architecture;  and  looking  in  the  dim  shade,  and  in 
the  close  vicinity  of  all  the  instruments,  like  a  ma- 
gician, disguised  in  a  Welsh  wig  and  a  suit  of  coffee 
color,  who  held  the  child  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 

In  the  mean  time  Walter  proceeded  towards  Mr. 
Dombe^'s  house  at  a  pace  seldom  achieved  by  a  hack 
horse  from  the  stand;  and  yet,  with  his  head  out  of 
window  every  two  or  three  minutes,  in  impatient  re- 
monstrance with  the  driver.  Arriving  at  his  journey's 
end,  he  leaped  out,  and  breathlessly  announcing  his 
errand  to  the  servant,  followed  him  straight  into  the  li- 
brary, where  there  was  a  great  confusion  of  tongues, 
and  where  Mr.  Dombey,  his  sister,  and  Miss  Tox,  Rich- 
ards, and  Nipper,  were  all  congregated  together, 

"Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Walter,  rushing 
up  to  him.  "but  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  all  right,  sir. 
Miss  Dombey's  found!" 

The  hoy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and 
sparkling  eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement, 
was  wonderfully  opposed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  as  he  sat  con- 
fronting him  in  his  library  chair. 

"  I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  be 
found,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  his 
shoulder  at  that  lady,  who  wept  in  coTupawy  V\\)a."^\5& 
Tox.     "Lei  the  servants  know  that  no  iuT\X\eT  aVe^^^'^'i 


80  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

necessary.  This  boy,  who  brings  the  information,  is 
young  Gay,  from  tlie  office.  How  was  my  daughter 
found,  sir?  I  know  how  she  was  lost."  Here  he 
looked  majestically  at  Richards.  "But  how  was  she 
found-*  who  found  her?" 

"  Why,  I  believe  /  found  Miss  Dombey,  sir,"  said 
Walter  modestly:  "at  least  I  don't  know  that  I  can 
claim  the  merit  of  having  exactly  found  her,  sir,  but  I 
was  tho  fortunate  instrument  of — " 

'■  What  do  you  mean,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dombey. 
regarding  the  boy's  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  his 
share  of  the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  dislike, 
"  by  not  having  exactly  found  my  daughter,  and  by 
being  a  fortunate  instrument?  Be  plain  and  coherent, 
if  vou  please." 

ii  was  quite  out  of  Walter's  power  to  be  coherent; 
but  he  rendered  himself  as  explanatory  as  he  could, 
in  his  brcatldess  state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come 
alone. 

"You  hear  this,  girl?"  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to 
the  black-eyed.  "  Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return 
immediately  with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Flor- 
ence home.     Gay,  you  will  be  rewarded  to-morrow." 

"  OhI  thank  you,  sir,''  said  Walter.  "  You  are  very 
kind,     I'm  sure  I  was  not  thinking  of  any  reward,  sir."' 

"You  are  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  suddenly  and 
almost  fiereely;  "and  what  you  think  of,  or  affect  to 
think  of,  is  of  little  consequence.  You  have  done 
well,  sir.  Don't  undo  it.  Louisa,  please  to  give  the 
lad  some  wine," 

Mr.  Dombey's  glance  followed  Walter  Gay  with 
sharp  disfavor  as  ne  left  tlie  room  under  the  pilotage 
of  Mrs.  Chick;  and  it  may  be  tliat  hiH  mind's  eye  fol- 
lowed him  with  np  greater  relish  as  lie  rode  back  to 
his  uncle's  with  Miss  Husan  Nipper. 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by 
sleep,  had  dined,  and  greatly  improved  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Solomon  Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of 
perfect  confidence  and  ease.  The  black-eyed  (who  had 
cried  so  much  that  she  might  now  be  called  the  red- 
eyed,  and  who  was  very  silent  and  depressed)  caught 
her  in  her  arms  without  a  word  of  contradiction  or  re- 
proach, and  made  a  very  hysterical  meeting  of  it. 
Then  converting  the  parlor  for  the  nonce,  into  a  private 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S7 

tyring  room,  sbe  dressed  her,  with  great  care,  in  proper 
clothes;  and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a  Domhey 
as  her  natural  disqualifications  admitted  of  her  being 
made. 

"  Good  night! "  said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solomon. 
"You  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her 
grandfather. 

"Good  night,  Walter!    Good  by!"  said  Florence. 

"Good  by!"  said  Walter,  giving  both  liis  hands. 

"  I'll  never  forget  you,"  pursued  Florence.  "  No!  in- 
deed I  never  wiiL     Good  by,  Walter!  " 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child 
lifted  up  her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his 
own,  raised  it  again,  all  red  and  burning;  and  looked  at 
Uncle  Sol,  quite  sheepishly. 

"  Where's  Walter?"  "  Good  night,  Walter! "  "Good 
by,  Walter! "  "  Shake  hands,  once  more,  Walter! " 
Tliis  was  Btill  Florence's  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with 
her  little  maid,  in  the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at 
length  moved  off,  Walter  on  the  doorstep  gaily  returned 
the  waving  of  her  handkerchief,  while  tiie  wooden  mid- 
shipman behind  him  seemed,  like  himself,  intent  upon 
that  coach  alone,  excluding  all  the  other  passing 
coaches  from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey's  mansion  was  gained  again, 
and  again  there  was  a  noise  of  tongues  in  the  library. 
Again,  too.  the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait — "  for  Mrs. 
Richards,"  one  of  Susan's  fellow-servants  ominously 
whispered,  as  she  passed  with  Florence. 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  made  a  slight  sensation, 
but  not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  never  found  her, 
kissed  her  once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned  her 
not  to  run  away  again,  or  wander  anywhere  with  treach- 
erous attendants,  Mrs,  Chick  stopped  in  her  lamenta- 
tions on  the  corruption  of  human  nature,  even  when 
beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by  a  Charitable  Grinder; 
and  received  her  with  a  welcome  something  short  of 
the  reception  due  to  none  but  perfect  Dombeys,  Miss 
Tox  regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models  before  her. 
Richards,  the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out  her 
heart  in  broken  words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  herself 
over  the  little  wandering  head  as  if  she  really  lov^^d  SS., 

"Ah  Richards.' " said  Mrs.  Chick, -wit^i  &  %\g\\.    "\^ 


88  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who 
■wish  to  think  well  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  much 
more  hecoming  in  you,  if  you  had  shown  some  proper 
feeling,  in  time,  for  the  little  child  that  is  now  going  to 
be  prematurely  deprived  of  its  natural  nourishment. 

"Cut  off,"  said  Miss  Tox.  in  a  plaintive  whisper, 
"  from  one  common  fountain! " 

"If  it  was  Hi!/  ungrateful  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  sol- 
emnly, "and  I  had  j/our  reflections.  Richards,  I  should 
feel  as  if  the  Charitable  Grinders'  dress  would  blight  my 
child,  and  the  education  choke  him," 

For  the  matter  of  that — but  Mrs.  Chick  didn't  know 
it— he  had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  already ; 
and  as  to  the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect  might 
be  produced  in  time,  for  it  was  a  storm  of  sobs  and  blows. 

"  Louisa!  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  '"  It  is  not  necessary  to 
prolong  these  observations.  The  woman  is  discharged 
and  paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  taking 
my  son — my  son,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  emphatically  re- 
peating thesetwowords,  "into  haunts  and  into  society 
which  are  not  to  be  thought  of  without  a  shudder.  As 
to  the  accident  which  befel  Miss  Florence  this  morning, 
I  regard  that,  as,  in  one  great  sense,  a  happy  and  for- 
tunate circumstance;  inasmuch  as,  but  for  that  occur- 
rence. I  never  could  have  known — and  from  your  own 
lips  too — of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I  think,  Louisa, 
the  other  nurse,  tne  young  person,"  here  Miss  Nipper 
sobbed  aloud,  "  being  so  mucn  younger,  and  necessarily 
influenced  by  Paul's  nurse,  may  remain.  Have  the 
goodness  to  direct  that  this  woman's  coach  is  paid  to — " 
Mr.  Dombey  stopped  and  winced — "to  8tagga's  Gar- 
dens." 

Polly  moved  towards  the  door,  with  Florence  holding 
to  her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic 
manner  not  to  go  away.  It  was  a  dagger  in  the  naughty 
father's  heart,  an  arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the 
flesh  and  blood  he  could  not  disown  clung  to  this  ob- 
scure stranger,  and  he  sitting  by.  Not  that  he  cared  to 
whom  his  daughter  turned,  or  from  whom  turned  away. 
The  swift  sharp  agony  struck  through  him  as  he  thought 
of  what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth 
to  say,  poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than 
sons  of  that  age  often  have,  for  he  had  lost  his  second 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  89 

mother — his  first,  bo  far  as  he  knew — by  a  stroke  as 
sudden  as  that  natural  affliction  which  had  darkened 
the  beginning  of  his  life.  At  the  same  blow,  his  sister, 
too,  wno  cried  herself  to  sleep  so  mournfully,  had  lost 
as  good  and  true  a  friend.  But  that  is  quite  beside  the 
question.     Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Miss  Tos  inhabited  a  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  History, 
into  a  fashionable  neighborhood  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  where  it  stood  m  the  shade,  like  a  poor  relation, 
of  the  great  street  round  the  corner,  coldly  looked  down 
upon  by  mighty  mansions.  It  was  not  exactly  in  a 
court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a  yard;  but  it  was  in 
the  dullest  of  No-Thoroughfares,  rendered  anxious  and 
haggard  by  distant  double  knocks.  Tlie  name  of  this 
retirement,  where  grass  grew  between  the  chinks  in  the 
stone  pavement,  was  Princess's-place ;  and  in  Princess's* 
place  was  Princess's  Chapel,  witli  a  tinkling  bell,  where 
sometimes  as  many  aa  five-and-twenty  people  attended 
service  on  a  Sunday.  The  Princess's  Arms  was  also 
there,  and  much  resorted  to  by  splendid  footmen.  A 
sedan  chair  was  kept  inside  the  raiting  before  the  Prin- 
cess's Arms,  but  it  had  never  come  out,  within  the 
memory  of  man;  and  on  fine  mornings,  the  top  gf  every 
rail  (there  are  eight-and-forty,  as  Aliss  Tox  nad  often 
counted)  was  decorated  with  a  pewter-pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  besides  Miss  Tox's 
in  Princess's-place:  not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  of 
gates,  with  an  immense  pair  of  lion-headed  knockers 
on  them,  which  were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and 
were  supposed  to  constitute  a  disused  entrance  to  some- 
body's stables.  Indeed,  there  was  a  smack  of  stabling 
in  the  air  of  Princess's-place;  and  Miss  Tox'a  bedvoQm. 
{which  was  at  the  back)  commanded  a  ■v\a\».  ol  ^«vi?.. 


00  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wliere  hostlers,  at  whatever  sort  of  work  engaged,  were 
continually  accompanying  themselves  with  effervescent 
noises;  and  where  the  most  domestic  and  confidential 
garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives  and  families, 
usually  hung,  like  Macheth's  banners,  ou  the  outward 
walls. 

At  this  other  private  house  in  Princess"s-place, 
tenanted  by  a  retired  butler,  who  had  married  a  house- 
keeper, apartments  were  let  Furnished,  to  a  single 
gentleman:  to  wit,  a  wooden-featured,  blue-faced  Major, 
with  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  in  whom  Miss 
Tox  recognised,  as  she  herself  expressed  it,  "  something 
so  truly  military;"  and  between  whom  and  herself,  an 
occasional  interchange  of  newspapei-s  and  pamphlets, 
and  such  Platonic  dalliance,  was  effected  through  the 
medium  of  a  dark  servant  of  the  Major's,  whom  Miss 
Tox  was  quite  content  to  classify  as  a  "native,"  with- 
out connecting  him  with  any  geographical  idea  what- 
ever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  smaller  entry  and  stair- 
case than  the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox's  house. 
Perhaps,  taken  altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was 
the  most  inconvenient  little  house  in  England,  and  the 
crookedest;  but  then,  Miss  Tox  said,  what  a  situation! 
There  was  very  little  daylight  to  be  got  there  in  the 
winterr  no  suu  at  the  best  of  times:  air  was  out  of  the 
rf^uestion,  and  traffic  was  walled  out.  Still  Miss  Tox 
said,  think  of  the  situation!  So  said  the  blue-faced 
major,  whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head:  who 
gloried  in  PrincessVplace:  and  who  delighted  to  turn 
the  conversation  at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to 
something  connected  with  some  of  the  great  people 
in  the  great  street  round  the  comer,  that  he  might 
have  the  satisfaction  of  saying  they  were  his  neigh- 
bors. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her 
own;  having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by 
the  deceased  owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of 
whom  a  miniature  portrait,  with  a  powdered  head  and 
a  pigtail,  balanced  the  kettle-holder  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  parlor  fireplace.  The  greater  part  of  the  furniture 
was  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail  period:  compris- 
ing a  plate  warmer,  always  languishing  and  sprawling 
its  four  attenuated  bow  legs  in  somebody's  way;  and  an 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  91 

obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated  round  the  maker's 
name  with  a  painted  garland  of  sweet  peas. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is 
called  in  polite  literature  the  grand  meridian  of  life, 
and  was  proceeding  on  his  journey  down-hili  with 
hardly  any  throat,  and  a  very  rigid  pair  of  jaw-bones, 
and  long-flapped  elephantine  ears,  and  his  eyes  and 
complexion  m  the  state  of  artificial  excitement  already 
mentioned,  he  was  mightily  proud  of  awakening  an 
interest  in  Miss  Tox,  and  tickled  his  vanity  with  the 
fiction  that  she  was  a  splendid  woman  who  had  her  eye 
on  him.  This  he  had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club: 
in  connection  with  little  jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe 
Bagstock,  old  Joey  Bagstock,  old  J.  Bagstock,  old  Josh 
Bagstock,  or  so  forth,  was  the  perpetual  theme:  it  being, 
as  it  were,  the  major's  stronghold  and  donjon-keep  of 
light  humor,  to  be  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with  his 
own  name. 

"  Joey  B.,  sir,"  the  major  would  say,  with  a  flourish 

■  of  his  walking-stick,  "  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you.     If  you 

had  a  few  more  of  the  Bagstock  breed  among  you,  sir, 

f'ou'd  be  none  the  worse  forit.  Old  Joe,  sir,  needn't 
ook  far  for  a  wife  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  lookout; 
but  he's  hard-hearted,  sir,  is  Joe — he's  tough,  sir,  tough, 
and  de-vilish  siv!"  After  such  a  declaration  wheezing 
sounds  would  be  heard;  and  the  major's  blue  would 
deepen  into  purple,  while  his  eyes  strained  and  started- 
convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  himself, 
however,  the  major  was  selfish.  It  may  he  doubted 
whether  there  ever  was  a  more  entirely  selfish  person  at 
heart;  or  at  stomach  is  perhaps  a  better  expression,  see- 
ing that  be  was  more  decidedly  endowed  with  that  lat- 
ter oi^an  than  with  the  former.  He  had  no  idea  of 
being  overlooked  or  slighted  by  anybody;  least  of  all, 
had  he  the  remotest  comprehension  of  being  overlooked 
and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet.  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him — gradu- 
ally forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon  after 
her  discovery  of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued  to 
forget  him  up  to  the  time  of  the  christening.  She  went 
on  foi^etting  him  with  compound  interest  after  that. 
Something  or  somebody  had  superseded  hin\  o»  a  wsvxxcft 
of  interost.  t'ooolr 


03  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  meeting 
Misa  Tox  in  Princess's-place,  some  weeks  after  the 
changes  chronicled  in  the  last  chapter. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox;  very  coldly. 

"Joe  Bagstock,  ma'am,"  observed  the  major,  with 
his  usual  gallantry,  "  has  not  had  the  happiness  of  bow- 
ing to  you  at  your  window  for  a  considerable  period. 
Joe  has  been  hardly  used,  ma'am.  His  sun  has  been 
behind  a  cloud," 

Miss  Tox  inclined  her  head;  but  very  coldly  indeed. 

"Joe's  luminary  has  been  out  of  town,  ma'am,  per- 
haps," inquired  the  major. 

"  I?  out  of  town?  oh  no,  I  have  not  been  out  of 
town."  said  Misa  Tox.  "I  have  been  much  engaged 
lately.  My  time  ia  nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  in- 
timate friende.  I  am  afraid  I  have  none  to  spare, 
even  now.     Good  morning,  air!" 

As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  car- 
riage, disappeared  from    Princess's-place,    the   major 
stood  looking  after  her  with  a  bluer  face  than  ever:  . 
muttering  and  growling  some  not  at  all  complimentary 
remarks. 

"  Why,  damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his  lob- 
ster eyes  round  and  round  Princess's-place,  and  apostro- 
phising its  fragrant  air,  "  six  months  ago,  the  woman 
loved  the  ground  Josh  Bagstock  walketi  on.  What's 
the  meaning  of  it';* " 

The  major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it 
meant  man-traps;  that  it  meant  plotting  and  snaring; 
that  Miss  Tox  was  digging  pitfalla.  "  But  you  woirt 
catch  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "He's  tough, 
ma'am,  tough,  is  J.  B.  Tough,  and  de-vilish  slyl "  over 
wliieh  reflection  he  chuckled  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were 
gone  and  past,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed 
whatever  of  the  major,  and  thought  nothing  at  all 
about  him.  She  had  been  wont,  once  upon  a  time,  to 
look  out  at  one  of  her  little  dark  windows  by  accident, 
and  blushingly  return  the  major's  greeting;  but  now 
she  never  gave  the  major  a  chance,  and  cared  nothing 
at  all  whetner  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not.  Other 
changes  had  come  to  pass  too.  The  major,  standing  in 
the  snade  of  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out  that 
an  air  of  greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  93 

Tox's  houso;  that  a  new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had 
been  provided  for  the  ancient  little  canary  bird;  that 
divers  ornaments,  cut  out  of  colored  card-boards  and 
paper,  seemed  to  decorate  the  chimney-piece  and  tables; 
that  a  plant  or  two  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  win- 
dows; that  Miss  Tox  occasionally  practised  on  the  harp- 
sichord, whose  garland  of  sweet  peas  was  always 
displayed  ostentatiously,  crowned  with  the  Copenhagen 
and  Bird  Waltzes  in  a  music-book  of  MisB  Tox's  own 
copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this,  Miss  Tox  had  long  been 
dressed  with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  in  slight 
mourning.  But  this  helped  the  major  out  of  his  diifi- 
culty;  and  he  determined  within  himself  that  she  had 
come  into  a  small  legacy,  and  grown  proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  he  had  eased  his 
mind  by  arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  major,  sit- 
ting at  his  breakfast,  saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous 
and  wonderful  in  Miss  Tox's  little  drawing-room,  that 
he  remained  for  some  time  rooted  to  his  chair;  then, 
rushing  into  the  next  room  returned  witli  a  double-bar- 
relled opera-glass,  through  which  he  surveyed  it  intently 
for  some  minutes. 

■'  It's  a  Baby,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shutting  up  the 
glass  again,  "  for  fifty  thousand  poundsl" 

The  major  couldn't  forget  it.  He  could  do  nothing  but 
whistle,  and  stare  to  that -extent  that  his  eyes,  com- 
pared with  what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former 
times  quite  cavernous  and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  two, 
three,  four  times  a  week,  this  baby  reappeared.  The 
major  continued  to  stare  and  whistle.  To  all  other  in- 
tents.and  purposes  he  was  alone  in  Princess's-place. 
Miss  Tox  has  ceased  to  mind  what  he  did.  He  might 
have  been  black  as  well  as  blue,  and  it  would  have  been 
of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of 
Princess's-place  to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and 
walked  back  with  them,  and  walkedhome  with  them 
again,  and  continually  mounted  guard  over  them;  and 
the  perseverance  with  which  she  nursed  it  herself,  and 
fed  it,  and  played  with  it,  and  froze  its  young  blood 
with  airs  upon  the  harpsichord;  was  extraordinary.  At 
about  the  same  period  too,  she  was  seized  with  a  pas- 
sion for  looking  at  a  certain  bracelet',  a\&o  w\Wv  ^  '^^sr- 


94  DOMBET  AKD  SON. 

eioo  for  looking  at  the  moon,  of  which  she  would  take 
long  obBervations  from  her  chamber  window.  But 
whatever  she  looked  at;  sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets; 
she  looked  no  more  at  the  major.  And  the  major 
whistled,  and  stared,  and  wondered,  and  dodged  about 
hie  room,  and  could  make  nothine  of  it. 

"  You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's 
the  truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

"  He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the 
little  Paul  in  her  arms,  and  making  his  cockade  per- 
fectlr  flat  and  limp  with  her  caresses. 

"His  mother,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "whose  ac- 
quaintance I  was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  he  at 
all  resemble  her!* " 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

"She  was — she  was  pretty,  I  believe?"  faltered  Miss 
Tox. 

"  Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  was  interesting,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  after  some  judicial  consideration.  "Certainly 
interesting.  She  had  not  that  air  of  commanding  supe- 
riority which  one  would  somehow  expect,  almost  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  find  in  my  brother's  wife;  nor  had 
she  that  strength  and  vigor  of  mind  which  such  a  man 
requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  But  she  was  phasing: "  sstid  Mrs.  Chick:  "  extremely 
so.  And  she  meant! — on,  dear,  how  well  poor  Fanny 
meant! " 

"You  angel!"  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  "You 
picture  of  your  own  papa! " 

If  the  major  could  nave  known  how  many  hopes  and 
ventures,  what  a  multitude  of  plans  and  speculations, 
rested  on  that  baby  head;  and  could  have  seen  them 
hovering,  in  all  their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  dis- 
order, round  the  mickered  cap  of  the  unconscious  little 
Paul;  he  might  nave  stared  indeed.  Then  would  he 
have  recognised,  among  the  crowd,  some  few  ambitious 
motes  and  beams  belonging  to  Miss  Tox:  then  would 
he  perhaps  have  understood  the  nature  of  that  lady's 
faltering  investment  in  the  Dombey  Firm. 

If  the  child  himself  could  have   awakened  in    the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  95 

iii^ht,  and  seen,  gathered  about  liis  cradle-curtains, 
faint  reflections  of  the  dreains  that  other  people  had  of 
him,  they  might  have  scared  him,  with  ^ood  reason. 
But  he  slumbered  on,  alike  unconscious  ot  the  kind  in- 
tentions of  iliss  Tox,  the  wonder  of  the  major,  the  early 
sorrows  of  his  sister,  aud  the  sterner  visions  of  his 
father;  and  innocent  that  any  spot  of  earth  contained  a 
Dombey  or  a  Son. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
Paul's  further  progress,  growth,  and  charactbr. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time 
—  so  far  another  Major  —  Paul's  slumbers  gradually 
changed.  More  and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them; 
distincter  and  distincter  dreams  disturbed  them;  an  ac- 
cumulating crowd  of  objects  and  impressions  swarmed 
about  his  rest;  and  so  he  passed  from  babyhood  to 
childhood,  and  became  a. talking,  walking,  wondering 
Dombey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the 
nursery  may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission; 
as  a  Public  Department  is  sometmies.  when  no  indi- 
vidual Atlas  can  be  found  to  support  it.  The  Commis- 
sionera  were,  of  course,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox:  who 
devoted  themselves  to  their  duties  with  such  astonishing 
ardor  that  Major  Bagstock  had  every  day  some  new  re- 
minder of  his  being  forsaken,  while  Mr.  Chick,  bereft 
of  domestic  supervision,  cast  himself  upon  the  gay 
world,  dined  at  clubs  and  coffee-houses,  smelt  of  smoke 
on  three  distinct  occasions,  went  to  the  play  by  himself, 
and  in  short,  loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick  once  told  him) 
every  social  bond,  and  moral  obligation. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  early  promise,  all  this  vigilance 
and  care  could  not  make  little  Paul  a  thriving  boy. 
Naturally  delicate,  perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after 
the  dismissal  of  his  nurse,  and,  for  a  long  time,  seemed 
but  to  wait  his  opportunity  of  gliding  through  their 
hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This  dangerous 
ground  in  his  steeple-chas^  towards  TnaBlQ,Qoi  ■^aR■sfiA■^ 


96  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

he  Btill  found  it  very  rough  riding,  and  was  grievously 
beset  by  all  the  obstacles  in  bis  course.  Every  tooth 
was  a  break-neck  fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the 
measles  a  stone  wall  to  him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit 
of  the  whoopine-cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushea  by 
a  whole  field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on 
each  other's  heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again. 
Some  bird  of  prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of  the 
thrush;  and  the  very  chickens  turning  ferocious — if 
they  have  anything  to  do  with  that  infant  maladj  to 
which  they  lend  their  name — ^worried  him  like  tiger- 
cats. 

The  chill  of  Paul's  christening  had  struck  home,  per- 
haps to  some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could 
not  recover  itself  in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father;  but 
he  was  an  unfortunate  child  from  that  day.  Mrs. 
Wickam  often  said  she  never  see  a  dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  waiter's  wife— which  would  seem 
equivalent  to  being  any  other  man's  widow — whose  ap- 

Efication  for  an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dombey's  service 
ad  been  favorably  considered,  on  accoimt  of  the  ap- 
parent impossibility  of  her  having  any  followers,  or 
any  one  to  follow;  and  who,  from  within  a  day  or  two 
of  Paul's  sharp  weaning,  had  been  engaged  as  his 
nurse.  Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  meek  woman,  of  a  fair 
complexion,  with  her  eyebrows  always  elevated,  and 
her  head  always  drooping;  who  was  always  ready  to 
pity  herself,  or  to  be  pitied,  or  to  pity  anybody  else;  and 
who  had  a  surprising  natural  gift  of  viewing  all  sub- 
jects in  an  utterly  forlorn  and  pitiable  light,  and  bring- 
ing dreadful  precedents  to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving 
the  greatest  consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that 
talent. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe,  that  no  touch  of 
this  quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of 
Mr.  Dombey.  It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed, 
if  any  had;  when  no  one  in  the  house — not  even  Mrs. 
Chick  or  Miss  Tox — dared  ever  whisper  to  him  that 
there  had,  on  any  one  occasion,  been  the  least  reason 
for  uneasiness  in  reference  to  little  Paul.  He  had  set- 
tled, within  himself,  that  the  child  must  necessarily  pass 
through  a  certain  routine  of  minor  maladies,  and  that 
the  sooner  he  did  so  the  better.  If  he  could  have  bought 
him  off,  or  provided  a  substitute,  as  in  the  case  of  an 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  97 

iiulucky  drawing  for  the  militia,  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  do  BO  on  liberal  terms.  But  as  this  was  not 
feasible,  he  merely  wondered,  in  his  haughty  manner, 
now  and  then,  what  Nature  meant  by  it;  and  comforted 
himself  with  the  reflection  that  there  was  another  mile- 
stone passed  upon  the  road,  and  that  the  great  end  of 
the  journey  lay  so  much  the  nearer.  For  the  feeling 
uppermost  in  his  mind,  now  and  constantly  intensify- 
ing and  increasing  in  it  as  Paul  grew  older,  was  im- 
patience. Impatience  for  the  time  to  come,  when  his 
visions  of  their  united  consequence  and  grandeur  would 
be  triumphantly  realised. 

Some  philosophers  tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the 
root  of  our  best  loves  and  affections.  Mr.  Dombey's 
young  child  was,  from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  im- 
portant to  him  as  a  part  of  his  own  greatness,  or  (which 
IF  the  same  thing)  of  the  greatness  of  Dombey  and  Son, 
that  there  is  no  doubt  bis  parental  affection  might  have 
been  easily  traced,  like  many  a  goodly  superstructure 
of  fair  fame,  to  a  very  low  foundation.  But  he  loved 
his  son  with  all  the  love  he  had.     If  there  were  a  warm 

Elace  in  his  frosty  heart,  his  son  occupied  it;  if  its  very 
ard  surface  could  receive  the  impression  of  any  image, 
the  image  of  that  son  was  there;  though  not  so  much 
a.s  an  infant,  or  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  grown  man — the 
"Son "of  the  Firm.  Therefore  he  was  impatient  to 
advance  into  the  future,  and  to  hurry  over  the  interven- 
ing passages  of  his  history.  Therefore  he  had  little  or 
no  anxiety  about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love;  feeling  as  if 
the  boy  had  a  charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man 
with  whom  he  held  such  constant  communication  in  his 
thoughts,  and  for  whom  he  planned  and  projected,  as 
for  an  existing  reality,  every  day. 

Thus  Paul  grew  to  be  nearly  five  years  old.  He  was 
a  pretty  little  fellow;  though  there  was  something  wan 
and  wistful  in  liis  small  face  that  gave  occasion  to 
many  significant  shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  head,  and 
many  long-drawn  inspirations  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  breath. 
His  temper  gave  abundant  promise  of  being  imperious 
in  after-life;  and  he  had  as  hopeful  an  apprehension  of 
his  own  importance,  and  the  rightful  subservience  of 
all  other  things  and  persons  to  it,  as  heart  could  desire, ' 
Pe  was  childish  and  sportive  enough  at  times,  atvd  wA 
of  a  sullen  disposition;  but  he  had  a  8tTo,T\g,e.  A^-\»^^^- 


98  DOMBEY  AND  SON.      ■ 

ioned,  thoughtful  way,  at  other  times,  of  sitting  brood- 
ing in  his  miniature  arm-chair,  when  he  looked  (and 
talked)  like  one  of  those  terrible  little  Beings  in  the 
Fairy  tales,  who,  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred 
years  of  age,  fantastically  represent  the  children  for 
whom  they  have  been  substituted.  He  would  fre- 
quently be  stricken  with  this  precocious  mood  up- 
stairs in  the  nursery;  and  would  sometimes  lapse 
into  it  suddenly,  exclaiming  that  he  was  tired:  even 
while  playing  with  Florence,  or  driving  Miss  Tox  in 
,  single  narness.  But  at  no  time  did  he  fall  into  it  so 
surely,  as  when,  his  little  chair  being  carried  down 
into  his  father's  room,  he  sat  there  with  him  after  din- 
ner, by  the  fire.  They  were  the  strangest  pair  at  such 
a  time  that  ever  firelight  shone  upon.  Mr.  Dombey  so 
erect  and  solemn,  gazmg  at  the  blaze;  his  little  image, 
with  an  old,  old  face,  peering  into  the  red  perspective 
with  the  fixed  and  rapt  attention  of  a  sage,  Mr.  Dombey 
entertaining  complicated  worldly  schemes  and  plans; 
the  little  im&ge  entertaining  Heaven  knows  what  wild 
fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and  wandering  specula- 
tions. Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch  and  arrogance; 
the  little  image  by  inheritance,  and  in  unconscious  imi- 
tation. The  two  so  very  much  alike,  and  yet  so  mon- 
strously contrasted.  ' 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been 
perfectly  quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Dombey  only 
knew  that  the  child  was  awake  by  occasionally  glancing 
at  his  eye,  where  the  bright  fire  was  sparklmg  like  a 
jewel,  little  Paul  broke  silence  thus: 

"Papal  what's  money?" 

The  abrupt  question  had  puch  immediate  reference  to 
the  subject  of  Mr,  Dombey's  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  quite  disconcerted. 

"  What  is  money,  Paul?"  he  answered.     "Money?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the 
elbows  of  his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up 
towards  Mr.  Dombey's;  "what  is  money?" 

Mr,  Dombey  was  in  a  difficulty.  He  would  have 
liked  to  give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms 
circulating-medium,  currency,  depreciation  of  currency, 
paper,  bullion,  rates  of  exchange,  value  of  precious 
metals  in  the  market,  and  so  forth;  but  looking  down 
at  the  little  chair,  and  seeing  what  a  long  way  down  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  99 

was,  he  answered:  "Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper, 
Quineas,  shillings,  half-pence.  You  know  what  tney 
are?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,"  said  Paul.  "  I  don't 
mean  that,  papa.     I  mean  what's  money  after  all." 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned 
it  up  a^ain  towards  his  fathers! 

"What  is  money  after  all! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  back- 
ing his  chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in 
sheer  amazement  at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  pro- 
pounded such  an  inquiry. 

"I  mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do?"  returned  Paul,  fold- 
ing his  arms  (they  were  liardlv  long  enough  fold),  and 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and 
up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place, 
and  patted  him  on  the  head.  "You'll  know  better  by- 
and-by,  my  man,"  he  said.  "Money,  Paul,  can  do  any- 
thing." He  took  hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it 
softly  against  one  of  his  own,  ae  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  ho  could;  and 
rubbing  it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair, 
as  if  his  wit  were  in  the  palm  and  he  were  sharpening 
it — and  looking  at  the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had 
been  his  adviser  and  prompter — repeated,  after  a  short 
pause: 

"Anything,  papa?" 

"Yes,    Anything — almost,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Anything  meqns  everything,  don't  it,  papa?"  asked 
his  son:  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding, 
the  qualification. 

"It  includes  it;  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Why  didn't  money  save  me  my  mama?"  returned 
the  Ahild.     "It  isn't  cruel,  is  it?" 

"Cruel!"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth, 
and  seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  "No.  A  good  thing 
can't  be  cruel." 

"  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,"  said  the 
little  fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire, 
"I  wonder  why  it  didn't  save  me  my  mama." 

He  didn't  ask  the  question  of  liis  father  this  time. 
Perhaps  he  had  seen,  with  a  child's  quickness,  that  it 
had  already  made  his  father  uncomfortable.  BxA  Vfe 
repeated  the  thought  aloud,  as  it  it  wete  *^\\ft%xv<5v\ 


100  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

one  to  him,  and  had  troubled  him  very  much;  and  sat 
with  his  chin  resting  ou  his  hand,  still  cogitating  and 
.  looking  for  an  explanation  in  the  fire, 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  surprise,  not 
to  say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  on 
which  the  child  had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  his 
mother  to  him,  though  he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his 
side,  in  this  same  manner,  evening  after  evening),  ex- 
pounded to  him  how  that  money,  though  a  verv  potent 
spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  any  account  whatever, 
could  not  keep  people  afive  whose  time  was  come  to 
die:  and  how  tnat  we  must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even 
in  the  city,  though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how 
that  money  caused  us  to  be  honored,  feared,  respected, 
courted,  and  admired,  and  made  us  powerful  and  glo- 
rious in  the  eyes  of  all  men;  and  how  that  it  could,  very 
often,  even  keep  off  death,  for  a  long  time  together. 
How,  for  example,  it  had  secured  to  his  mama  the 
services  of  Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often 
profited  himself;  likewise  of  the  great  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  whom  he  had  never  known.  And  how  it  could 
do  all  that  could  be  done.  This,  with  more  to  the  same 
purpose,  Mr.  Dombey  instilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son,, 
who  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  to  understand  the" 
greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

"It  can't  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  either,  papa; 
can  it?"  asked  Paul,  after  a  short  silence,  rubbing  nis 
tiny  hands, 

"Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,"  returned  Mr. 
Domhey,     "Are  you  not?" 

Oh  I  the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up  again, 
with  an  expression,  half  of  melancholy,  half  of  slyness, 
on  it! 

"  You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little  peoplenisu- 
ally  are;  eh?"  said  Mr.  Domhey. 

"Florence  is  older  than  I  am.  but  I'm  not  as  strong 
and  well  as  Florence,  I  know."  returned  the  child;  "  but 
I  believe  that  when  Florence  was  as  little  as  me,  she 
could  play  a  great  deal  longer  at  a  time  without  tiring 
herself.  I  am  so  tired  sometimes,"  said  little  Paul, 
warming  his  hands,  and  looking  in  between  the  bars  of 
the  grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  pui)pet-show  were  perform- 
ing there,  "and  my  oones  ache  so  (Wickam  says  it'p 
my  bones)  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ]01 

"Ay!  But  that's  at  night,"  said  Mr,  Dorabey^  draw- 
ing his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son's,  and  laying  his 
hand  gently  on  his  hack;  "  little  people  should  be  tired 
at  night,  /or  then  they  sleep  well. 

"Oh,  it's  not  at  night,  papa,"  returned  the  child;  "it's 
in  the  day;  and  I  lie  down  in  Florence's  lap,  and  she 
sings  to  me.  At  night  I  dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous 
things!" 

And  he  went  on,  warming  his  hands  again,  and  think- 
ing about  them,  lilce  an  old  man  or  a  young  goblin. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfortable, 
and  so  perfectly  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversa- 
tion, that  he  could  only  sit  looking  at  hia  son  by  the 
light  of  the  fire,  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if 
it  were  detained  there  by  some  magnetic  attraction. 
Once  he  advanced  hia  other  hand,  and  turned  the  con- 
templative face  towards  his  own  for  a  moment.  But  it 
sought  the  fire  again  aa  soon  aa  he  released  it;  and  re- 
mained, addressed  towards  the  flickering  blaze,  until 
the  nurse  appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed. 

"  I  want  Florence  to  come  for  me,"  aaid  Paul. 

"Won't  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  Wickam, 
Master  Paul?"  inqmred  that  attendant  with  great 
pathos. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  rephed  Paul,  composing  himself  in  hia 
arm-chair  again,  like  the  master  of  the  house. 

Invoking  a  blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wick- 
am withdrew,  and  presently  Florence  appeared  in  her 
stead.  The  child  immediately  started  up  with  sudden 
readiness  and  animation,  and  raised  towards  his  father, 
in  bidding  him  good  night,  a  countenance  so  much 
brighter,  so  much  younger,  and  so  much  more  child-like 
altogether,  that  Mr,  Dombey,  while  he  felt  greatly  re- 
assured by  the  change,  was  quite  amazed  at  it. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  soft  voice  singing;  and  remembering  that  Paul 
had  said  his  eister  sung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
open  the  door  and  listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  was 
toiling  up  the  great,  wide,  vacant  stairoase,  with  him  in 
her  arms;  his  head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his 
arms  thrown  negligently  round  her  neck.  So  they  went, 
toiling  up;  she  singing  all  the  way,  and  Paul  sometimes 
croonmg  out  a  feeble  accompaniment.  'Wt.  \icra^>e;^ 
looked  ^ter  them  until  they  reached  ttv«  Wp  oV  ^»  »\,em- 


102  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

case — not  without  halting  to  rest  by  the  way — and  passed 
out  of  his  sight;  and  then  he  still  stood  gazing  upwards, 
until  the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  glimmering  m  a  melan- 
choly manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent.him  back 
to  his  own  room. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  council  at 
dinner  next  day;  and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr. 
Dombey  opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  in- 
formed, without  anygloss  or  reservation,  whether  tliere 
was  anything  the  matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr.  Pilkins 
said  about  bim. 

"  For  the  child  is  hardly,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  as  stout 
as  I  could  wish." 

"With  your  usual  happy  discrimination,  my  dear 
Paul,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  you  have  hit  the  point  at 
once.  Our  darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could 
wish.  The  fact  is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him. 
Hia  soul  is  a  great  deal  too  large  for  his  frame.  I  am 
sure  the  way  m  which  that  dear  child  talks! "  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  shaking  her  head;  *'noone  would  believe.  Hia 
expressions,  Lucretia,  only  yesterday  upon  the  subject 
of  funerals! —  " 

"  1  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her 
testily,  "that  some  of  those  persons  up-stairs  suggest 
improper  subjects  to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me 
last  night  about  his— about  his  bones,''  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
laying  an  irritated  stress  upon  the  word.  "  What  on 
earth  has  anybody  to  do  with  the — with  the — bones  of 
my  son?    He  is  not  a  living  skeleton,  I  suppose." 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  unspeakable 
expression. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  her  brother.  "  Funerals  again! 
who  talks  to  the  child  of  funerals?  We  are  not  imder- 
takers,  or  mutes,  or  grave-diggers.  I  believe." 

'■  Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  the 
same  profound  expression  as  before. 

"  Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head?"  said  Mr, 
Dombey.  "  Really  I  was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked 
last  night.  Who  puts  such  things  into  his  head, 
Louisa? " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  it  is  of  no  use  inquiring,  I  do  not  think,  I  will 
tell  you  candidly,  that  Wickam  is  a  person  or  very 
clieerf  ul  spirit,  or  what  one  would  call  a —  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  103 

"  A  daughter  of  Momus,"  Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick;  "but  she  ia  exceed- 
ingly attentive  and  useful,  and  not  at  all  presumptuous; 
indeed  I  never  saw  a  more  biddable  woman.  If  the 
dear  child,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tene  of  one  who 
was  summing  up  what  had  been  previously  quite  agreed 
upon,  instead  of  saying  it  all  for  the  first  time,  "isa 
little  weakened  by  that  last  attack,  and  is  not  in  quite 
such  vigorous  health  as  we  could  wish;  and  if  he  has 
some  temporary  weakness  in  his  system,  and  does  oc- 
casionally seem  about  to  lose,  for  tae  moment,  the  use 
of  his —  " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for 
a  suggestion  from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  office, 
hazarded  "members," 

"Members!"  repeated  Mr.  Dorabey. 

"  I  think  the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  legs  this 
morning,  nw  dear  Louisa;  did  he  not?"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  of  course  hedid,  my  love,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
mildly  reproachful.  "  How  can  you  ask  me?  You  heard 
him.  I  say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose,  for  the  moment, 
the  use  of  his  le^,  these  are  casualties  common  to  many 
children  at  his  time  of  life,  and  not  to  be  prevented  by 
any  care  or  caution.  The  sooner  you  understand  that, 
Paul,  and  admit  that,  the  better." 

"  Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,"  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "that  I  don't  question  your  natural  devotion  to, 
and  natural  regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house. 
Mr.  Pijkins  saw  Paul  this  morning,  I  believe? "  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  returned  his  sister.  "Miss  Tox  and 
myself  were  present.     Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always 

8 resent.  We  make  a  point  of  it.  Mr.  Pilkins  has  seen 
im  for  some  days  past,  and  a  very  clever  man  I  believe 
him  to  be.  He  says  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of;  which  I 
can  confirm,  if  that  is  any  consolation;  but  he  recom- 
mended, to-day,  sea-air.  Very  wisely,  Paul,  I  feel  con- 
vinced," 
"  Sea-air,"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  his  sister. 
"There  is  nothing  to  be  made  uneasy  hy,  in  that," 
said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  My  George  and  Frederick  were  both 
ordered  sea-air,  when  they  were  about  hiw  ag,e\  a-ivJ.  \ 
have  been  ordered  it  myself  a  great  luanij  Wvo.^'a.    \ 


104  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

quite  agree  with  y;ou,  Paul,  that  perhaps  topics  may  he 
iDcautiously  mentioned  up-stairs,  before  him,  which  it 
would  he  aa  well  for  his  little  mind  not  to  expatiate 
upon;  but  I  really  don't  see  how  that  is  to  be  helped  in 
the  case  of  a  child  of  his  quickness.  If  he  were  a  com- 
mon child,  there  would  be  nothing  in  it.  I  must  say  I 
think,  with  Miss  Tox,  that  a  short  absence  from  this 
house,  the  air  of  Brighton,  and  the  bodily  and  mental 
training  of  so  judicious  a  person  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  in- 
stance— " 

"Who  is  Mre,  Pipchin,  Ijouisa?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey; 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a  name  he  had 
never  heard  before. 

"Mrs.  Pipchin.  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister, 
"  is  an  elderly  lady — Miss  Tox  knows  her  whole  history 
— who  has  for  some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  her 
mind,  with  the  greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treat- 
ment of  infancy,  and  who  has  lieen  extremely  well  con- 
nected. Her  husband  broke  his  heart  in — how  did  you 
say  her  husband  broke  his  heart,  my  dear?  I  forget  the 
precise  circumstances. " 

"In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  Mines."  re- 
plied Miss  Tox. 

"Not  being  a  Pumper  himself,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  glancmg  at  her  brother;  and  it  really  did  seem 
necessary  to  offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had 
spoken  of  him  as  if  he  had  died  at  the  handle;  "but 
having  invested  money  in  the  speculation,  which  failed. 
I  believe  that  Mrs,  Pipchin's  management  of  children  is 
quite  astonishing.  1  have  heard  it  commended  in 
private  circles  ever  since  I  was^-dear  me— howliighl*' 
^^rs.  Chick's  eve  wandered  about  the  book-case  near  the 
bust  of  Mr.  Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from  the 
ground. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  mv  dear  sir." 
observed  Miss  Tox,  witn  an  ingenuous  blush,  "having 
been  so  pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  which 
has  been  piissed  upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well 
merited.  Many  ladies  and  gentleman,  now  grown  up 
to  be  interestmg  members  of  society,  have  been  in- 
debted to  her  care.  The  humble  individual  who  ad- 
dresses you  was  once  under  her  charge.  I  believe 
juvenile  nobility  itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  establish- 
ment," 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lOS 

"  Do  I  understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps 
an  establishment,  Miss  Tox?"  inquired  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescendingly. 

"  Why,  I  really  don't  know."  rejoined  that  lady, 
"  whether  I  am  justifled  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a 
Preparatory  School  by  any  means.  Should  I  express 
my  meaning,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  peculiar  sweetness, 
"if  I  designated  it  an  infantine  Boarding-House  of  a 
very  select  description?" 

"  On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale." 
suggested  Mrs.  ChicK,  with  a  glance  at  her  brother. 

"Oh!  Exclusion  itself!  "  said  Miss  Tox, 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was 
good.  It  had  a  rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr.  Dombey  was 
in  a  state  almost  amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea 
of  Paul  remaining  where  he  was  one  hour  after  his  re- 
moval had  been  recommended  by  the  medical  practi- 
tioner. It  was  a  stoppage  and  delay  upon  the  road  the 
child  must  traverse,  slowly  at  the  best.  l»efore  the  goal 
was  reached.  Their  recommendation  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  great  weight  with  him;  for  he  knew  that  they  were 
jealous  of  any  interference  with  their  charge,  and  he 
never  for  a  moment  took  it  into  account  that  they  might 
be  solicitous  to  divide  a  responsibility,  of  which  he  had, 
as  shown  just  now.  his  own  established  views.  Broke 
his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mine<!,  mused  Mr.  Dombey. 
Well,  a  very  respectable  way  of  doing  it. 

"  Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow's  in- 
quiries, to  send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady, 
who  would  go  with  him?"  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after 
some  reflection. 

"I don't  think  you  could  send  the  child  anywhere  at 
present  without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his 
sister,  hesitating.  "■  It's  quite  an  infatuation  with  him. 
He's  very  young,  you  know,  and  has  his  fancies." 

Mr,  Dombey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly 
to  the  bookcase,  and  unlocking  it,  brought  oack  a  book 
to  read. 

'•Anybody  else,  Louisa?"  he  said,  without  looking 
up,  and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Wickam,  01  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  suffi- 
cient, I  should  say,"  returned  his  sister.  "  ¥ wiWiewv"?, 
in  such  banda  as  Mvb.  Pipchin's,  you  cou\4  WtSX-^  wviiV 


106  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

anybody  who  would  be  a  further  check  upon  her.  You 
would  go  down  yourself  once  a-week,  at  least,  of 
course. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombej';  and  sat  looking  at  one 
page  for  an  hour  afterwards,  without  reading  one  word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvellous  ill- 
favored,  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure, 
with  a  mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hoot  nose,  and 
a  hard  grey  eye,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been 
hammered  at  on  an  anvil  without  sustaining  any  in- 
jury. Forty  years  at  least  had  elapsed  since  the  Peru- 
vian mines  had  been  the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin;  but  his 
relict  still  wore  black  bombazeen,  of  such  a  lustreless,  ■ 
deep,  dead,  sombre  shade,  that  gas  itsejf  couldn't  light 
her  up  after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a  quencher  to 
any  number  of  candles,  one  was  generally  spoken  of 
as  "  a  great  manager"  of  children;  and  the  secret  of 
her  management,  was,  to  give  them  everything  that 
they  didn't  like,  and  nothing  that  they  did — which  was 
found  to  sweeten  their  dispositions  very  much.  She 
was  such  a  bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  be- 
lieve there  had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of 
the  Peruvian  machinery,  and  that  alt  her  waters  of 
gladness  and  milk  of  human  kindness  had  been  pumped 
out  dry,  instead  of  the  mines. 

The  castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-queller  was  in  a 
steep  by-street  at  Brighton;  where  the  soil  was  more 
than  usually  chalky,  flmty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses 
were  more  than  usually  brittle  and  thin;  where  the 
small  front-gardens  had  the  unaccountable  property  of 
producing  nothing  but  marigolds,  whatever  was  sown 
m  them;  and  where  snails  were  constantly  discovered 
holding  on  to  the  street  doors,  and  other  public  places 
they  were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with  the  tenacity 
of  cupping-glasses.  In  the  winter  time  the  air  couldn  t 
be  got  out  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  it 
couldn't  be  got  in.  There  was  such  a  continual  reverber- 
ation of  wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a  great  shell, 
which  the  inhabitants  were  obliged  to  hold  to  their  ears 
night  and  day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no.  It  was  not, 
naturally,  a  fresh-smelling  house;  and  in  the  window  of 
the  front  parlor,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin 
kept  a  collection  of  plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an 
earthy  flavor  of  their  own  to  the  establishment.     How- 


DOMBEY.AND  SON.  107 

ever  choice  examples  of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants 
were  of  a  kind  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  emhowerment 
of  Mrs.  Pipchin.  There  were  half-a-dozen  specimens  of 
the  cactus,  writhing  round  hits  of  lath,  Hke  hairy  ser- 
pents; another  specimen  shooting  out  broad  claws,  like  ' 
a  green  lobster;  several  creeping  vegetables,  possessed 
of  sticky  and  adhesive, leaves;  and  one  uncomfortable 
flower-pot  hanging  to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to 
have  boiled  over,  and  tickhng  people  underneath  with 
its  long  green  ends,  reminded  them  of  spiders — in  which 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  dwelling  was  uncommonly  prolific, 
though  perhaps  it  challenged  competition  still  more 
proudly,  in  the  season,  in  point  of  earwigs. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  scale  of  charges  being  nigh,  however, 
to  all  who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  very 
seldom  sweetening  the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in 
favor  of  anybody,  she  was  held  to  he  an  old  lady  of  re- 
markable firmness,  who  was  quite  scientific  in  her 
knowledge  of  the  childish  character.  On  this  reputa- 
tion, ancTon  the  broken  heart  of  Mr.'  Pipchin,  she  had 
contrived,  taking  one  year  with  another,  to  eke  out  a 
tolerably  suflScient  living  since  her  husband's  demise. 
Within  three  days  after  Mrs.  Chick's  first  allusion  to 
her,  this  excellent  old  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  an- 
ticipating a  handsome  addition  to  her  current  rec^ts, 
from  the  pocket  of  Mr.  Dombey;  and  of  receiving  Flor- 
ence and  her  little  brother  Paul,  as  inmates  of  the 
castle. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them 
down  on  the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed  at 
an  hotel),  had  just  driven  away  from  the  door,  on  their 
journey  home  again;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her  back 
to  the  fire,  stoofT  reviewing  the  new-comers,  hke  an  old 
soldier.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  middle-aged  niece,  her  good- 
natured  and  devoted  slave,  hut  possessing  a  g^auut  and 
iron-bound  aspect,  and  much  afflicted  with  boils  on  her 
nose,  was  divesting  Master  Bitherstone  of  the  clean 
collar  he  had  worn  on  parade.  Miss  Pankey,  the  only 
other  little  boarder  at  present,  had  that  moment  been 
walked  off  to  the  castle  dungeon  (an  empty  apartment 
at  the  back,  devoted  to  correctional  purposes),  for  hav- 
ing sniffed  thrice,  in  the  presence  of  visitors. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  "  how«do  -^cm. 
think  you  shal]  like  me?  " 


108  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  PauL 
"  I  want  to  go  away.    This  isn't  iny  house." 

"  No.     It's  mine,"  returned  Mrs  Pipchin. 

"  It's  a  very  nasty  one,"  said  Paul. 

"There's  a  worse  place  in  it  than  this,  though,"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  '"  where  we  shut  up  our  hsid  boya." 

"  Has  Ae  ever  been  in  it?"  as.ked  Paul:  pointing  out 
Master  Bitherstone, 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent;  and  Paul  had  enough  to 
do,  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bither- 
stone from  head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workings 
of  his  countenance,  with  the  interest  attaching  to  a  boy 
of  mysterious  and  terrible  experiences. 

At  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dinner,  chiefly  of  the  fari- 
naceous and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey  (a  mild 
little  blue-eyed  morsel  of  a  child,  who  was  shampoo'd 
every  morning,  and  seemed  in  danger  of  being  ruobed 
away,  altogether)  was  led  in  from  captivity  by  the 
ogress  herself,  and  instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed 
before  visitors  ever  went  to  Heaven.  When  this  great 
truth  had  been  thoroughly  impressed  upon  her,  she  was 
regaled  with  rice;  and  subsequently  repeated  the  form 
of  grace  established  in  the  castle,  in  which  there  was  a 
special  clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin  foragood  dinner. 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  niece,  Berinthia,  took  cold  pork.  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  whose  constitution  required  warm  nurishment. 
made  a  special  repast  of  mutton-chops,  which  were 
brought  in  hot  and  not,  between  two  plates,  and  smelt 
very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn  t  go  out 
walking  on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution 
required  rest  after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Berry 
(otlierwith  Berinthia)  to  the  dungeon,  an  empty  room 
looking  out  upon  a^  chalk  wall  and  a  water-nutt,  and 
made  ghastly  by  a  ragged  fireplace  without  any  stove 
in  it.  Enlivened  by  company,  however,  this  was  the 
best  place  after  all;  for  Berry  played  with  them  there, 
and  seeme*to  enjoy  a  game  at  romps  as  much  as  they 
did;  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at  the  wall. 
Uke  the  Cock-lane  ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and  • 
Berry  told  them  stories  in  a  whisper  until  twilight. 

For  tea  there  was  plenty  of  millc  and  water,  and  bread 
and  butter,  with  a  little  black  tea-pot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and    Berry,    and    buttered   toast    unlimited   for    Mrs. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lOH 

Pipchin,  which  was  brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  tht; 
chops.  Though  Mrs.  Pipchin  got  very  greasj',  outsidts 
over  this  dish,  it  didn't  seem  to  lubricate  ner,  internally, 
at  all;  for  she  waa  as  fierce  eis  ever,  and  the  hard  grey 
eye  knew  no  softening. 

After  tea,  Berry  brought  out  a  little  work-box,  with 
the  Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working 
busily;  while  Mrs.  Pipchin, having  put  on  her spectacUs 
and  opened  a  great  volume  bound  in  ^reen  baize,  began 
to  nod.  And  whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself 
falling  forward  into  the  fire,  and  woke  up,  she  filliped 
Master  Bitherstone  on  the  nose  for  nodding  too. 

At  last  it  was  the  children's  bedtime,  and  after 
prayers  they  went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was 
afraid  of  sleeping  alone  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Pipchin  always 
made  a  point  of  driving  her  up-stairs  herself,  like  a 
sheep;  and  it  was  cheerful  to  hear  Miss  Pankey  moan- 
ing long  afterwards,  in  the  least  eligible  chamber,  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin  now  and  then  going  in  to  shake  her.  At 
about  half -past  nine  o'clock  the  odor  of  a  warm  sweet- 
bread (Mrs,  Pipchifl's  constitution  wouldn't  go  to  sleep 
without  sweet-bread)  diversified  the  prevailing  fra- 
grance of  the  house,  which  Mrs.  Wickam  said  was  "  a 
smell  of  building;''  and  slumber  fell  upon  the  castle 
shortly  after. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over 
night,  except  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of 
toast,  and  seemed  a  little  more  irate  when  it  was  over. 
Master  Bitherstone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a  pedigree 
from  Genesis  (judiciously  selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin), 
getting  over  the  names  with  the  etise  and  clearness  of  a 
person  tumbling  up  the  treadmill.  That  done.  Miss 
Pankey  was  borne  away  to  be  sliampoo'd;  and  Master 
Bitherstone  to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with 
salt  water,  from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue 
and  dejected.  Paul  and  Florence  went  out  in  the  mean 
time  on  the  heat-li  with  Wickam — who  was  constantly 
in  tears — and  at  al>out  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  piesided  over 
some  Early  Readings.  It  being  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
system  not  to  encourage  a  child's  mind  to  develop  and 
expand  itself  like  a  young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by 
force  like  an  oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was 
usually  of  a  violent  and. stunning  character:  the  hero — 
a  naughty  boy— seldom,   in   the  mMeat  ca.X.aaXxo-^'ft, 


no  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

being  finished  off  by  anything  less  than  a  lion,  or  a 
bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  On  Saturday  Mr. 
Dombey  came  down;  and  Florence  and  Paul  would  go 
to  his  hotel,  and  have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of 
Sunday  with  him,  and  generally  rode  out  before  dinner; 
and  on  these  occasions  Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  grow, 
like  Falstaff's  assailants,  and  instead  of  being  one  man 
in  buckram,  to  become  a  dozen.  Sunday  evening  was 
the  most  melancholy  evening  in  the  week;  for  Mrs. 
Pipchin  always  made  a  point  of  being  particularly  cross 
on  Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey  was  generally  brought 
back  from  an  aunt's  at  Bottingdean,  in  deep  distress; 
and  Master  Bitherstone,  whose  relatives  were  ail  in 
India,  and  who  was  required  to  sit,  between  the  servi- 
ces, in  an  erect  position  with  his  head  against  the  par- 
lor wall  neither  moving  hand  nor  foot,  suffered  so 
acutely  in  his  young  spirits  that  he  once  asked  Florence, 
on  a  Sunday  nightj  if  she  could  give  him  any  idea  of 
the  way  hack  to  Bengal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a 
w^oman  of  system  with  children;  and  no  doubt  she  was. 
Certainly  the  wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  after 
sojourning  for  a  few  months  beneath  her  hospitable 
roof.  It  was  generally  said,  too,  that  it  was  highly  cred- 
itable of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  have  devoted  herself  to  this 
way  of  life,  and  to  have  made  such  a  sacrifice  of  her 
feelings,  and  such  a  resolute  stand  as:ainst  her  troubles, 
when  Mr.  Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

At  this  exemplary  old  lady,  Paul  would  sit  staring  in 
his  little  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of  time. 
He  never  seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was,  when  he 
was  looking  fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was  not  fond 
of  her;  he  was  not  afraid  of  her;  but  in  those  old  old 
moods  of  his,  she  seemed  to  have  a  grotesque  at- 
traction for  him.  There  he  would  sit,  looking  at  her. 
and  warming  his  hands,  and  looking  at  her,  until  he 
sometimes  quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pipchin,  ogress  as 
she  was.  Once  she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone, 
what  he  was  thinking  about. 

"  You,"  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me:' "  asked  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  • 

"  I'm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,"  said  Paul. 

-Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Ill 

"You  mustn't  say  such  thinKS  as  that,  young  gentle- 
man,'" returned  the  dame.     "  That'll  never  do. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Because  it's  not  polite,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snap- 
pishly. 

"Not  polite?"  said  Paul. 

"  No.''^ 

"It's  not  polite,"  said  Paul,  innocently,  "to  eat  all 
the  mutton-cnops  and  toast,  Wickam  says." 

"  Wickam,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  coloring,  "is  a 
wicked,  impudent,  bold-faced  hussy." 

"  What's  that?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Never  you  mind,  sir,"'  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  Re- 
member the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gored  to 
death  by  a  mad  bull  for  asking  questions." 

"  If  the  bull  was  maS,"  said  Paul,  "  how  did  he  know 
that  the  boy  bad  asked  questions?  Nobody  can  go  and 
whisper  secrets  to  a  mad  bull,  I  don't  believe  that 
story." 

"You  don't  believe  it,  sir?"  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
amazed. 

"No,"  said  Paul. 

"Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a  tame  bull, 
you  little  infidel?"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  light, 
and  had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy 
of  the  bull,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  i)ut  down  for  the 
present.  But  he  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with 
such  an  obvious  intention  of  fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  pres- 
ently, that  even  that  hardy  old  lady  deemed  it  prudent 
to  retreat  until  he  should  have  forgotten  the  subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  towards  Paul, 
as  Paul  had  towards  her.  She  would  make  him  move 
his  chair  to  her  side  of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  oppo- 
site; and  there  he  would  remain  in  a  nook  between  Mrs. 
Pipchin  and  the  fender,  with  all  the  light  of  his  little 
face  absorbed  into  the  black  borobazeen  drapery,  study- 
ing every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her  cnuntenance,  and 
peering  at  the  hard  grey  eye  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  was 
sometimes  fain  to  shut  it,  on  pretence  of  dozmg.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled 
upon  the  centre  foot  of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically, 
and  winking  at  the  fire  until  the  coi\\;TacVe4.  \i\iv^ft  »A 


U-i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

his  eyes  were  like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good 
old  lady  might  have  been — not  to  record  it  disrespect- 
fully— a  witch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her  two  faminars, 
as  tney  all  sat  by  the  fire  together.  It  would  have  been 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  jparty  if 


fliey  had  all  sprung  up  the  chimney  in  a  high  wind  one 
"aignt,  and  never  been  heard  of  any  more. 
This.however^  never  came  to  pass.    The  cat,  and  Paul, 


and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in  their 
usual  places  after  dark;  and  Paul,  eschewing  the  com- 
panionship of  Master  Bitherstone,  went  on  studying 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  cat,  and  the  fire,  night  after  night, 
as  if  they  were  a  book  of  necromancy,  in  three  volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul's 
eccentricities;  and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits 
by  a  perplexed  view  of  chimney*  from  the  room  where 
she  was  accustomed  to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind, 
and  by  the  general  dullness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wick- 
am's  strong  expression)  of  her  present  life,  deduced 
the  most  dismal  reflections  from  the  foregoing  premises. 
It  was  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  policy  to  prevent  her 
own  "young  hussy" — that  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  generic 
name  for  female  servant — from  communicating  with 
Mrs.  Wickam:  to  which  end  she  devoted  much  of  her 
time  to  concealing  herself  behind  doors,  and  springing 
out  on  that  devoted  maiden  whenever  she  maae  an  ap- 
proach towards  Mrs,  Wickam's  apartment.  But  Berry 
was  free  to  hold  what  converse  she  could  in  that  quarter 
consistently  with  the  discharge  of  the  multifarious 
duties  at  wnich  she  toiled  incessantly  from  morning  to  , 
night;  and  to  Berry,  Mrs.  Wickam  unburdened  ner 
mmd. 

"  What  a  pretty  fellow  he  is  when  he's  asleep! "  said 
Berry,  stoppmg  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night  when 
she  took  up  Mrs.  Wickam's  supper. 

"  Ah! "  sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.     "  He  need  be." 

"Why,  he's  not  ugly  when  he's  awake,"  observed 
Berry. 

"No,  ma'am.  Oh,  no.  No  more  was  my  uncle's  Bet- 
sey Jane."  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connex- 
ion of  ideas  between  Paul  Dombey  and  Mrs.  Wickam's 
uncle's  Betsey  Jane. 

"My  uncles  wife,"  Mrs.    Wickam   went  on  to  say. 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  113 

"  died  just  like  his  mama.     My  uncle's  child  took  on 

i'ust  as  Master  Paul  do.  My  uncle'e  child  made  people's 
ilood  run  cold,  sometimcB,  she  did!" 

"  How?"  asked  Berry. 

"  I-wouldn't  have  eat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey 
Jane!"  said  Mrs,  Wickam,  "not  if  you'd  have  put 
Wicfcam  into  business  next  morning  for  himself.  I 
couldn't  have  done  it.  Miss  Berry."  . 

MisB  Berry  naturally  asked,  why  not?  But  Mrs. 
Wickam,  agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her 
condition,  pursued  her  own  branch  of  the  subject  with- 
out any  compunction. 

■■  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wicfcam,  "  was  as  sweet  a 
child  as  I  could  wish  to  see.  I  couldn't  wish  to  see  a 
sweeter.  Everything  that  a  child  could  have  in  the 
way  of  illnesses,  Betsey  Jane  had  come  through.  The 
cramps  was  as  common  to  her."  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  as 
biles  IS  to  yourself,  Miss  Berry."  Miss  Berry  involun- 
tarily wrinkled  her  nose. 

"But  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam.  lowering  her 
voice,  and  looking  round  th^  room,  and  towards  Paul  in 
bed,  "  had  been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  her  departed 
mother.  I  couldn't  say  how,  nor  I  couldn't  say  when, 
nor  I  couldn't  say  whether  the  dear  child  knew  it  or 
not,  but  Betsey  Jane  had  been  watched  by  her  mother, 
MiSB  Berry!  You  may  say  nonsense!  I  an't  oflFended, 
miss.  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  in  your  own 
conscience  that  it  is  nonsense;  you'll  find  your  spirits 
all  the  better  for  it  in  this— you'll  excuse  ray  being  so 
free — in  this  burying-ground  of  a  place;  which  is  wear- 
ing of  me  down.  Master  Paul's  a  little  restless  in  his 
sleep.    Pat  his  back,  if  you  please." 

"Of  course  you  think,"  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what 
she  was  asked,  "that  he  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother 
too?" 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam.  in  her  most 
solemn  tones,  "  was  put  upon  as  that  child  has  been  put 
upon,  and  changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I  have 
seen  her  sit,  often  and  often,  think,  think,  thinking, 
like  him.  I  have  seen  her  look,  often  and  often,  old, 
old,  old,  like  him.  I  have  heard  her,  many  a  time,  talk 
just  like  him.  I  consider  that  child  and  Betsey  Jane  on 
the  same  footing  entirely,  Miss  Berry." 

"  Is  your  uncle's  child  alive?"  asked  Berry;  ,.,„|i- 


114  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Yes,  misB,  she  is  alive,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickanj  with 
an  air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  Miss  Berry  ex- 
pected the  reverse;  "and  is  married  to  a  silver-chaser. 
Oh  yes,  miss,  She  is  alive,"  Baid  Mrs.  Wictam,  laying 
strong  stress  on  her  nominative  case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead;  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece  inquired  who  it  was. 

"I  wouldn't  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,  returned 
Mrs.  Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.     "Don't  ask  me." 

This  was  the  surest  way  of  bemg  asked  again.  Miss 
Berry  repeated  her  question,  therefore;  and  after  some 
resistance,  and  reluctance,  Mrs.  Wickam  laid  down 
her  knife,  and  a^ain  glancing  round  the  room  and  at 
Paul  in  bed,  rephed; 

"She  took  fancies  to  people;  whimsical  ffmciee, 
some  of  them;  others,  affections  that  one  mieht  ex- 

§ect  to  see— only  stronger  than  common.  Tney  all 
ied, " 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  niece,  that  sue  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of  the 
bedstead,  breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  inform- 
ant with  looks  of  undisguised  alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily 
towards  the  bed  where  Florence  lay;  then  turned  it  up- 
side down,  and  made  several  emphatic  points  at  the 
floor;  immediately  below  which  was  the  parlor  in  which 
Mrs.  Pipchin  habitually  consumed  the  toast. 

"  Remember  my  words,  Miss  Berry."  said  Mrs. 
Wickam,  "  and  be  thankful  that  Master  Paul  is  not  too 
fond  of  you,  I  am,  that  he's  not  too  fond  of  me,  I 
assure  you;  though  there  isn't  much  to  live  for — you'll 
excuse  my  being  so  free — in  this  jail  of  a  house." 

Miss  Berry's  emotion  might  have  led  to  her  patting 
Paul  too  hard  on  the  back,  or  might  have  produced 
a  cessation  of  that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned 
in  his  bed  just  now,  and,  presently  awaking,  sat  up  in 
it  with  his  nair  hot  and  wet  from  the  effects  of  some 
childish  dream,  and  asked  for  Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
voice;  and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sang 
him  to  sleep  again,  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  head, 
and  letting  fall  several  tears,  pointed  out  the  little  group 
to  Berry,  and  turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"Good  night,  miss!"  said  Wickam,  softly.     "Good 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  115 

night!  Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady,  Miss  Berry,  and  it's 
what  you  must  have  looked  for,  often.'" 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompa- 
nied with  a  look  of  heartfelt  anguish;  and  being  left 
alone  with  the  two  children  again,  and  becoming 
conscious  that  the  wind  was  blowing  mournfully,  she 
indulged  in  melancholy — that  cheapest  and  most  ac- 
cessible of  luxuries — until  she  was  overpowered  by 
slumber. 

Although  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to 
find  that  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearth-rug 
when  she  went  down-stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find 
her   unusually   fractious  and  severe,   and   with  every 

E resent  appearance  of  intending  to  live  a  long  time  to 
e  a  comfort  to  all  who  knew  ner.  Nor  had  she  any 
symptoms  of  declining  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week, 
when  the  constitutional  viands  still  continued  to  dis- 
appear in  regular  succession,  notwithstanding  that  Paul 
studied  her  attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied  his  usual 
seat  between  the  blacK  skirts  and  the  fender,  with  un- 
wavering constancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expira- 
tion of  that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  first  arrival, 
though  he  looked  much  healthier  in  the  face,  a  little 
carriage  was  got  for  him,  in  which  he  could  lie  at  his 
ease,  with  an  alphabet  and  other  elementary  works  of 
reference,  and  be  wheeled  down  to  the  sea-side.  Con- 
sistent in  his  odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a  ruddy- 
faced  lad  who  was  proposed  as  the  drawer  of  this  car- 
riage, and  selected,  mstead,  his  grandfather— a  weazen, 
old,  crab-faced  man,  in  a  suit  of  battered  oilf^kin.  who 
had  got  tough  and  stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt 
water,  and  who  smeit  like  a  weedy  sea-beach  when 
the  tide  is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and 
Florence  always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despond 
ent  Wickam  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the 
margin  of  the  ocean  every  day;  and  there  he  would  sit 
or  lie  in  his  carriage  for  hours  together:  never  so  dis- 
tressed as  by  the  company  of  children — Florence  alone 
excepted,  always, 

"Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child 
who  came  to  bear  him  company.     "Thank  yoM.,  \i\A"V. 
don't  want  you. " 


116  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

3ome  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how 
he  was,  perhaps. 

*'  I  am  veiT  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer. 
"But  you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child 
away,  and  say  to  Florence,  "  We  don't  want  any  others, 
do  we?    Kias  me,  Floy." 

He  had  even  a  dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company 
of  Wickam.  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled 
away,  as  she  generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  ac- 

?uaintances.  His  favorite  spot  was  quite  a  lonely  one. 
ar  away  from  most  loungers;  and  with  Florence  sit- 
ting by  his  side  at  work,  or  reading  to  him,  or  talking 
to  him,  and  the  wind  blowing  on  his  face,  and  the  wat«r 
coming  up  among  the  wheels  of  his  bed,  he  wanted 
nothing  more, 

"  Floy,'"  he  said  one  day,  "  where's  India,  where  that 
boy's  friends  live?'' 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long,  long  distance  off,"  said  Florence, 
raising  her  eves  from  her  work. 

"  Weeks  off?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes,  dear.     Many  weeks'  journey,  night  and  day." 

"  If  you  were  in  India,  Floy, "'said  Paul,  after  being 
silent  tor  a  minute,  "  I  should— what  is  that  mama  did? 
I  forget." 

"Loved  me! "  answered  Florence. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  I  love  you  now,  Floy?  What  is^t? — 
Died,     If  you  were  io  India,  I  should  die.  Floy." 

She  hurriedly  put  lier  work  aside,  and  laid  her  head 
down  on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would  she. 
she  said,  if  he  were  there.     He  would  be  better  soon. 

"Oh!  I  am  a  great  deal  better  now!"  he  answered. 
"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  I  shouhl  die  of  being 
so  sorry  and  so  lonely,  Floyi " 

Another  time,  in  the  same  place,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
siept  quietly  for  a  long  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he 
hstened,  started  up,  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  lie  heard. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  it  says,'"  he  answered,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face.  "  The  sea,  Floy,  what  is  it  that  it 
keeps  on  saying?" 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling 
.waves. 
■  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said.      "But  I  know  that  they  aio 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  IK 

always  saying  somethinK-  Always  the  same  thitiR. 
What  place  is  over  there?  He  rose  up,  looking  eagerly 
at  the  horizon. 

She  Told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite, 
hut  he  said  he  didn't  mean  that;  he  meant  farther  away 
— fturtber  away. 

Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he 
would  break  ofif,  to  try  to  underBtand  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying;  and  would  rise  up  in 
his  couch  to  look  towards  tEat  invisible  regitm  far 
awav. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IV  WHICH  THE  W0Ol>BN  MIDSHIPUAN  OBTS  INTO  TROUBLE. 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvellous,  of 
which  there  was  a  pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  nature 
of  young  Walter  Gay,  and  which  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  old  Solomon  Gills,  had  not  very  much  weak- 
ened by  the  waters  of  stern  practical  experience,  was 
the  occasion  of  his  attaching  an  uncommon  and  de- 
lightful interest  to  the  adventure  of  Florence  with 
Good  Mrs.  Brown.  He  pampered  and  cherished  it  in 
his  memory,  especially  tnat  part  of  it  with  which  he 
had  been  associated:  until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of 
bis  fancy,  and  took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked 
with  it,      ■», 

The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  share 
in  them,  may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating, 
perhaps,  by  the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and 
Captam  Cuttle  on  Sundays,  Hardly  a  Sunday  passed, 
without  mysterious  references  being  made  by  one  or 
other  of  those  worthy  chums  to  Richard  Whittington: 
and  the  latter  gentleman  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to 

[)urchase  a  ballad  of  considerable  antiquity,  that  had 
ong  fluttered  among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive  of 
maritime  sentiments,  on  a  dead  wall  in  the  Commercial- 
road:  which  poetical  performance  set  forth  the  court- 
ship and  nuptials  of  a  promising  young  coal-whipper 
with  a  certain  "lovely  Peg, "the accomp\\ft\iei4Aa.M^*w:^ 


118  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  the  master  and  part-owner  of  a  Newcastle  collier. 
In  this  stirring  legend,  Captain  Cuttle  descried  a  pro- 
found metaphysical  bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and 
Florence;  and  it  excited  him  so  much,  that  on  very 
festive  occasions,  as  birthdays  and  a  few  other  non- 
Dominical  holidavB,  he  would  roar  through  the  whole 
song  in  the  little  back  parlor;  making  an  amajting  shake 
on  the  word  Pe — e — eg,  with  which  every  verse  con- 
cluded, in  compliment  to  the  heroine  of  the  piece. 

But  a  frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not 
much  given  to  analysing  the  nature  of  his  own  feelings, 
however  strong  their  hold  upon  him  r  and  Walter  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  decide  this  point.     He  had  a 

freat  affection  for  the  wharf  where  he  had  encountered 
lorence,  and  for  the  streets  (albeit  not  enchanting  in 
themselves)  by  which  they  had  come  home.  The  shoes 
that  had  so  often  tumbled  off'by  the  way,  he  preserved 
in  his  own  room;  and.  sitting  in  the  little  back  parlor  of 
an  evening,  he  had  drawn  a  whole  gallery  of  fancy 
portraits  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown.  It  may  be  that  he  lie- 
came  a  little  smarter  in  his  dress  after  that  memorable 
occasion;  and  he  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time  to 
walk  towards  that  quarter  of  the  town  where  Mr,  Dom- 
bey's  house  was  situated,  on  the' vague  chance  of  pass- 
ing little  Florence  on  the  street.  But  the  sentiment  of 
all  this  was  as  boyish  and  innocent  as  could  be.  Flor- 
ence was  very  pretty,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  admire  a 
pretty  face.  Florence  was  defenceless  and  weak,  and 
it  was  a  proud  thought  that  he  had  been  able  to  render 
her  any  protection  and  assistance,  Florence  was  the 
most  grateful  little  creature  in  the  world,  and  it  was  de- 
lightful to  see  her  bright  gratitude  beaming  in  her  face. 
Florence  was  neglected  and  coldly  looked  upon,  and  his 
breast  was  full  of  youthful  interest  for  the  slighted  child 
in  her  dull,  stately  home. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  perhaps  some  half-a-dozen 
times  in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his 
hat  to  Florence  in  the  street,  and  Florence  would  stop 
to  shake  hands,  Mrs.  Wickam  (who.  with  a  character- 
istic alteration  of  his  name  invariably  spoke  of  him  as 
"Young  Graves")  was  so  well  used  to  this,  knowing 
the  stoty  of  their  acquaintance,  that  she  took  no  heed 
of  it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand,  rather 
looked  out   for  these  occasions;    her  sensitive  young 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  119 

heart  boiu^  secretly  propitiated  by  Walter's  good  looks, 
and  inclining  to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were 
responded  to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing 
sight  of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remem- 
bered it  better  and  better.  As  to  its  adventures  begin- 
ning, and  all  those  little  circumstances  which  gave  it  a 
distinctive  character  and  relish,  he  took  them  into  ac- 
count, more  as  a  pleasant  story  very  agreeable  to  his 
imagination,  and  not  to  be  dismissed  from  it,  than  as  a 
part  of  any  matter  of  fact  with  which  he  was  concerned. 
They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his  fancy ;  but  not 
himself.  Sometimes,  he  thought  (and  then  he  walked 
very  fast)  what  a  grand  thing  it  would  have  been  for 
him  to  have  been  going  to  sea  on  the  day  after  that  first 
meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and  to  have  done  wonders 
there,  and  to  have  stopped  away  a  long  time,  and  to 
have  come  back  an  admiral  of  all  the  colors  of  the 
dolphin,  or  at  least  a  post-captain  with  epaulettes  of  in- 
supportable brightness,  and  to  have  married  Florence 
(then  a  beautiful  young  woman)  in  spite  of  Mr,  Dom- 
bey's  teeth,  cravat,  and  watch-chain,  and  home  her 
away  to  the  blue  shores  of  somewhere  or  other, 
triumphantly.  But  these  flights  of  fancy  seldom 
burnished  the  brass  plate  of  Dombey  and  Son's  offices 
into  a  tablet  of  golden  hope,  or  shea  a  brilliant  lustre 
on  their  dirty  skylights:  and  when  the  captain  and 
Uncle  Sol  talked  about  Richard  Whittington  and  mas- 
ter's daughters,  Walter  felt  that  he  understood  his  true 
position  at  Dombey  and  Son's  much  better  than  they 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do 
from  day  to  day,  in  a  cheerful,  painstaking,  merry 
spirit;  and  saw  through  the  sanguine  complexion  of 
Uncle  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle;  and  yet  entertained  a 
thousand  indistinct  and  visionary  fancies  of  his  own,  to 
which  theirs  were  work-a-day  probabilities.  Such  was 
his  condition  at  the  Pipchin  period,  when  he  looked  a 
little  older  than  of  yore,  but  not  much;'  and  was  the 
same  light-footed,  light-hearted,  light-headed  lad,  as 
when  he  charged  into  the  parlor  at  the  head  of  Uncle 
Sol  and  the  imaginary  boarders,  and  lighted  him  to 
bring  up  the  Madeira. 

"  Uncle  9oJ,"  said  Walter,  "Idon't  fh.mU'savs^TO'w^. 


120  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

You  haven't  eaten  any  breakfast.  I  shall  bring  a  doctor 
to  you,  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

"  He  can't  give  me  what  I  want,  m^  boy,"  said  Uncle 
Sol.  "At  least  he  Ja  in  good  practice  it  he  can — and 
then  he  wouldn't." 

"What  is  it,  uncle?    Customers?" 

"Aye,"  returned  Solomon,  with  a  sigh.  "Customers 
would  do." 

"  Confound  it,  uncle! "  said  Walter,  putting  down  his 
breakfast-cup  with  a  clatter,  and  strikmg  his  hand  on 
the  table:  "  when  I  see  the  people  going  up  and  down 
the  street  in  shoals  all  day,  and  passing  and  repasBing 
the  shop  every  minute  by  scores,  I  feel  half  tempted  to 
i-usli  out,  collar  someliody,  bring  him  in,  and  wafce  him 
buy  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  instruments  for  ready  money. 
What  are  you  looking  in  at  the  door  for? — "  continued 
Walter,  apostrophising  an  old  gentleman  with  a  pow- 
dered head  (inaudibty  to  him  of  course),  who  was 
staring  at  a  ship's  telescope  with  all  his  might  and  main. 
"That's  no  use.   I  oould  do  that.    Come  in  and  buy  it!'' 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his 
curiosity,  walked  calmly  away. 

"  There  he  goes! "  saia  Walt«r.  "  That's  the  way  with 
'em  all.  But.  uncle — I  say.  Uncle  Sol " — for  the  old  man 
was  meditating,  and  had  rot  responded  to  his  first 
appeal.  "Don't,  be  oast  down.  Don't  be  out  of  spirits, 
uncle.  When  orders  do  come,  they'll  come  in  such  a 
crowd,  you  won't  be  able  to  execute  'em." 

"I  shall  be  past  executing  'em,  whenever  they  come, 
my  boy,"  returned  Solomon  Gills.  "They'll  never  come 
to  this  shop  again,  till  I  am  out  of  it." 

"I  say,  uncle!  You  mustn't  really,  you  know!"  urged 
Walter.     "Don't!" 

Old  Sol  endeavored  to  assume  a  cheery  look,  and 
smiled  across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  he 
could. 

"There's  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter,  is  there, 
uncle?"  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  tne  tea-tray, 
and  bending  over,  to  speak  the  more  confidentially  and 
kindly.  "Be  open  with  me,  uncle,  if  there  is,  and  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"No,  no,  no,"  returned  Old  Sol.  "More  than  usual? 
No,  no.  What  should  there  he  the  matter  more  than 
usual?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Vil 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  bis 
.  liead.  "That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "and 
you  ask  mef  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle:  when  I  see  you 
like  this,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  live  with  you." 

Old  Sol  opened  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

"Yes,  Though  nobody  ever  was  happier  than  I  am 
and  etlways  have  been  with  you,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I 
live  with  you,  when  I  see  you  with  anything  on  your 
mind.'' 

"I  am  a  little  dull  at  such  times,  I  know,"  observed 
Solomon,  meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

"What  I  mean,  Uncle  Sol,"  pursued  Walter,  bending 
over  a  little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  is,  that 
then  I  feel  you  ought  to  have,  sittiug  here  and  pouring 
out  the  tea,  instead  of  me,  a  nice  little  dumpling  of  a 
wife,  you  know — a  comfortable,  capital,  cosy  old  lady, 
w^ho  was  just  a  match  for  you,  aiul  knew  how  to  mau- 
a<j;e  you,  and  keep  you  in  good  heart.  Here  am  I,  as 
loving  a  nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be!) 
but  I  am  only  a  nephew,  and  I  can't  be  such  a  compan- 
ion to  you  when  you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she 
would  nave  made  herself,  years  ago^  though  I'm  sure 
•I'd  give  any  money  if  I  could  cheer  you  up.  And  so  I 
Bay,  when  I  see  you  with  anything  on  your  mind,  that 
I  feel  quite  sorry  you  haven't  got  somebody  better  about 
you  than  a  blundering  young  rough-and-tough  boy  like 
me,  who  has  got  the  will  to  console  you,  uncle,  but 
hasn't  got  the  way  —  hasn't  got  the  way,"  repeated 
Walter,  reaching  over  further  yet,  to  shake  his  uncle 
by  the  hand. 

'•  Wallv,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  "if  the  cosy 
little  old  lady  nad  taken  her  place  in  this  parlor  five  and 
forty  years  ago,  I  never  could  have  been  fonder  of  her 
than  I  am  of  you." 

■■/know  that.  Uncle  Sol,"  returned  Walter.  "Lord 
bless  you,  I  know  that.  But  you  wouldn't  have  had  the 
whole  weight  oi  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  siie  had 
been  with  you,  because  she  would  have  known  how  to 
relieve  you  of  'em,  and  I  don't," 

"  Yea.  yes,  you  do."  returned  the  instrument  maker. 

"  Well  then,  what's  the  matter,  Uncle  Sol? "  said  Wal- 
ter, coaxingly.     "Cornel    What's  the  matter?" 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  the 
matter:  and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  tUeAXii?.  ii.«^\«^ 


122  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

had  no  resource  but  to  make  averyindiflferent  imitation 
of  believing  him. 

"  All  I  can  say  is.  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is — " 

"  But  there  isn't,"  said  Solomon. 

"Very  well,"  said  Walter.  "ThenTre  no  more  to 
say;  and  that's  luckv,  for  my  time's  up  for  going  to 
business.  I  shall  look  in  by-aud-by  when  I'm  out,  to^ee 
how  you  get  on,  uncle.  And  mind,  uncle!  I'll  never 
believe  you  again,  and  never  tell  you  anything  more 
about  Mr.  Carlcer  the  junior,  if  I  find  out  that  you  have 
been  deceiving  me! " 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  any- 
thing of  the  kind;  and  W  alter,  revolving  in  his  thoughts 
all  sorts  of  impracticable  ways  of  making  fortunes  and 
placing  the  wooden  midshipman  in  a  poBition  of  inde- 
pendence, betook  himself  to  the  oflScee  of  Dombey  and 
Son  with  a  heavier  countenance  than  he  usually  carried 
there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner — in 
Bishopsgate-street  Without — one  Brogley,  sworn  broker 
and  appraiser,  who  kept  a  shop  where  every  description 
of  second-hand  furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  un- 
comfortable aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in' 
combinations  the  most  completely  foreign  to  its  purpose. 
Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands,  which 
with  difficulty  poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of 
sideboards,  which  in  their  turn  stood  u^n  the  wrong 
side  of  dining-tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward 
on  the  tops  or  other  dining-tables,  were  among  its  most 
reasonable  arrangements.  A  banquet  array  of  dish- 
covers,  wine-glasses,  and  decanters,  was  generally  to 
be  seen  spread  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a  four-post  bed- 
stead, for  the  entertainment  of  such  genial  company  as 
half-a-dozen  pokers,  and  a  hall  lamp.  A  set  of  window 
curtains,  with  no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would  be 
seen  gracefully  draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of  drawers, 
loaded  with  little  jars  from  chemists'  shops;  while  a 
homeless  hearth-rug,  severed  from  its  natural  compan- 
ion the  fireside,  braved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  ad- 
versity, and  trembled  in  melancholy  accord  with  the 
shrill  complainings  of  a  cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a 
string  a  day,  and  faintly  resounding  to  t^e  noises  of  the 
street  in  its  iangliag  and  distracted  bram.  Of  motion- 
less clocks  that  never  stirred  a  finger,  and  seemed  as  in- 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  123 

capable  of  being  Buccessf  uUy  wound  up,  as  the  pecuniary 
affairs  of  their  former  owners,  there  was  always  great 
choice  in'  Mr.  Brogley's   shop;    and  various    looking- 

S lasses,  accidentally  placed  at  compound  interest  of  re- 
ection  and  refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an  eternal 
perspective  of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a  moist-eyed,  pink-complex- 
ioned,  crisp-haired  man,  of  a  bulky  figure  and  an  easy 
temper — for  that  class  of  Caius  Marius  who  sits  upon 
the  ruins  of  other  people's  Carthages,  can  keep  up  his 
spirits  well  enough.  He  had  looked  in  at  Solomon's 
shop  sometimes,  to  ask  a  question  about  articles  in  Solo- 
mon's way  of  business;  and  Walter  knew  him  suf- 
ficientlv  to  give  him  good  day  when  they  met  in  the 
street,  but  as  that  was  the  extent  of  the  broker's  ac- 
quaintance with  Solomon  Gilis  also,  Walter  was  not  a 
little  surprised  when  he  came  back  in  the  course  of  the 
forenoon,  agreeably  to  his  promise,  to  find  Mr,  Brogley 
sitting  in  the  back  parlor  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  his  hat  hanging  up  behind  the  door, 

"Well,  Uncle  Sol!"  said  Walter.  The  old  man  was 
sitting  ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with 
his  spectacles  over  his  eyes,  for  a  wonder,  instead  of 
on  his  forehead.     "  How  are  you  now? " 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  to- 
wards the  broker,  as  introducing  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter.?  "  asked  Walter,  with 
a  catching  in  his  breath. 

"  No,  no.  There's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Brog- 
ley,    "Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in*  mute 
amazement. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  there's  a  little  pay- 
ment on  a  bond  debt — three  hundred  and  seventy  odd, 
over  due:  and  I'min  possession." 

"  In  possession!"  cried  Walter,  looking  roimd  at  the 
shop. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and 
nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  the  advisabihty 
of  their  all  being  comfortable  together.  "  It's  an  execu- 
tion. That's  what  it  is.  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the 
way.  I  come  myself  because  of  keeping  it  quiet  and 
sociable.    You  know  roe.     It's  quite  private." 

"  Uncle  Sol! "  faltered  Walter. 

Coogk 


V^i  D("tMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Wally,  my  boy,"  returned  his  uncle.  "  It's  the  firet 
time.  Such  a  calamity  never  happened  to  me  before. 
I'm  an  old  man  to  begin."  Pusbii^  up  his  'spectacles 
again  (for  they  were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his 
emotion),  he  covered  his  face  ■withhishand,  and  sobbed 
aloud,  and  his  tears  fell  down  upon  his  coffee-colored 
waistcoat. 

■'Uncle  Soli  Pray!  oh  don't! "exclaimed Walter,  who 
really  felt  a  thrill  of  terror  in  seeingthe  old  man  weep, 
"  For  God's  sake  don't  do  that.  Mr.  Brogley,  what  eball 
I  do? " 

'*  /should  recommend  you  looking  up  a  friend  or  bo," 
said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  and  talking  it  over. 

"To  be  sure!"  cried  Walter,  catching  at  anything. 
"  Certainly!  Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle's  the  man, 
uncle.  Wait  till  I  run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your 
eye  upon  my  uncle,  will  you,  Mr.  Brogley,  ana  make 
him  as  comfortable  as  you  can  while  I  am  gone?  Don't 
despair.  Uncle  Sol.  Try  and  keep  a  good  heart,  there's 
a  dear  fellow!" 

Saying  this  with  great  fervor,  and  disregarding  the 
old  man  s  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of 
the  shop  again  as  hard  as  he  could  go:  and,  having  hur- 
ried round  to  the  office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of 
his  uncle's  sudden  illness,  set  off,  full  speed,  for  Captain 
Cuttle's  residence. 

Everything  seemed  -  altered  as  he  ran  along  the 
streets.  There  was  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise 
of  carts,  drays,  omnibuses,  wagons,  and  foot  passen- 
gers, but  the  misfortune  that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden 
midshipman  made  I't  strange  and  new.  Houses  and 
shops  were  different  from  what  they  used  to  be.  and 
bore  Mr.  Brogley's  warrant  on  their  fronts  in  large 
characters,  llie  broker  seemed  to  have  got  hold  of  the 
very  churches;  for  their  spires  rose  into  the  sky  with 
an  unwonted  air.  Even  the  sky  itself  was  changed, 
and  had  an  execution  in  it  plainly. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  little  canal 
near  the  India  Docks,  where  there  was  a  swivel  bridge 
which  opened  now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering 
monster  of  a  ship  come  roaming  up  the  street  like  a 
stranded  leviathan.  The  gradual  change  from  land  to 
water,  on  the  approach  to  Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings, 
was  curious.     It  hegan  with  the  erection  of  flag  staffs, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  126 

as  appurtenances  to  public-houses;  then  came  slop  Bel- 
lera'  ahops,  with  Guernsey  shirts,  sou'wester  hate,  and 
canvas  pantaloons,  at  once  the  tightest  and  the  loost'f-t  of 
their  order,  hanging  up  outside.  These  were  succeeded 
by  anchor  and  cham-cable  forges,  where  sledge  ham- 
mers were  dinging  upon  iron  allday  long-.  Then  came 
rows  of  houses,  with  little  vane-surmounted  maets  up- 
rearing  themselves  from  among  the  scarlet  beans. 
Then,  ditches.  Then,  pollard  willows.  Then,  more 
ditches.  Then,  unaccountable  patches  of  dirty  water, 
hardly  to  be  descried,  for  the  snips  that  covered  them. 
Then,  the  air  was  perfumed  with  chips;  and  all  other 
trades  were  swallowed  up  in  mast,  oar,  and  block  mak- 
ing, and  boat  building.  Then,  the  ground  grew  marshy 
and  unsettled.  Then,  there  was  nothing,  to  be  smelt 
but  rum  and  sugar.  Then,  Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings — 
at  once  a  first  floor  and  a  top  story,  in  Brig-place — 
were  close  before  you. 

The  captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men, 
suits  of  otw:  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  the  liveliest  imagination  to  separate  from  any 
part  of  their  dress,  however  insignificant.  Accora- 
ingly,  when  Walter  knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  cap- 
tain instantly  poked  his  head  out  of  one  of  hie  little 
front  windows,  and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glazed 
hat  already  on  it,  and  the  shirt  collar  like  a  sail,  and  the 
wide  Buit  of  blue  all  standing  as  usual,  Walter  was  as 
fully  persuaded  that  he  was  always  in  that  state  as  if  the 
captain  had  been  a  bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

"WalT.  my  lad!"  said  Captain  Cuttle.  "Stand  by 
and  knock  again.     Hardl     It's  washing  daj^." 

Walter,  in  his  impatience,  gave  a  prodigious  thump 
with  the  knocker. 

"Hard  it  is!"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  and  immediately 
drew  in  his  bead,  as  if  he  expected  a  squall. 

Nor  was  he  mistaken;  for  a  widow  lady,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  frothy 
with  soapsuds  and  smoking  with  hot-water,  replied  to 
the  Bummone  with  startling  rapidity.  Before  she  looked 
at  Walter  she  looked  at  the  knocker,  and  then,  meas- 
uring him  with  her  eyes  from  head  to  foot,  said  she 
wondered  he  had  left  any  of  it. 

"  Captain  Cuttle's  at  home,  I  know,"  said  Walter,  with 
a  conciUatorv  smile. 


126  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Is  he?"  replied  the  widow  lady.     "In-deed!" 

"He  has  just  been  Bpeaking  to  me,"  said  Walter,  in 
breathless  explanation. 

"Has  he?'  replied  the  widow^  lady.  "Then  p'raps 
you'll  give  him  Mrs.  MacStinger'a  respects,  and  say  that 
the  next  time  he  lowers  himself  aiid  his  lodgings  by 
talking  out  of  winder,  she'll  thank  him  to  come  down 
and  open  the  door  too."  Mrs.  MacStin^er  spoke  loud, 
and  listened  for  any  observations  that  might  oe  offered 
from  the  first  floor. 

"I'll  mention  it,"  said  Walter,  "if  you'll  have  the 
goodness  to  let  me  in,  ma'am." 

For  he  was  repelled  by  a  wooden  fortification  extend- 
ing across  the  doorway,  and  put  there  to  prevent  the 
little  MacStingers  in  their  moments  of  recreation  from 
tumbling  down  the  steps. 

"A  boy  that  can  knock  my  door  down,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  contemptuously, "  can  get  over  that,  I  should 
hopel"  fiut  Walter,  taking  this  as  a  permission  to  enter, 
and  getting  over  it,  Mrs.  MacStinger  immediately  de- 
manded whether  an  Englishwoman's  house  was  her 
castle  or  not;  and  whether  she  was  to  be  broke  in  upon 
by  "raff."  On  these  subjects  her  thirst  for  information 
was  still  very  importunate,  when  Walter,  having  made 
his  way  up  the  little  staircase  through  an  artificial  fog 
occasioned  by  the  washing,  which  covered  the  banisters 
with  a  clammy  perspiration,  entered  Captain  Outtle's 
room,  and  found  that  gentleman  in  ambush  behind  the 
door. 

"  Never  owed  her  a  penny,  Wal'r,"  said  Captain  Cuttle, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  with  visible  marks  of  trepidation  on 
his  countenance.  "  Done  her  a  world  of  good  turns, 
and  the  children  too.    Vixen  at  times,  though.  Whew!  " 

"  /  should  go  away.  Captain  Cuttle,''  said  Walter. 

"  Dursn't  do  it.  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain.  "She'd 
find  me  out,  wherever  I  went.    Sit  down.    How's  Gills?  " 

The  captain  was  dining  (in  his  hat)  off  cold  loin  of 
mutton,  porter,  and  smoking  hot  potatoes,  which  he  had 
cooked  himself,  and  took  out  of  a  little  saucepan  before 
the  fire  as  he  wanted  them.  He  unscrewed  his  hook 
at  dinner-time,  and  screwed  a  knife  into  its  wooden 
socket  instead,  with  which  he  had  already  begun  to  peel 
one  of  these  potatoes  for  Walter,  His  rooms  were  very 
small,  and  strongly  impregnated  with  tobacco  smoke. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON'.  rJ7 

but  snug  enough:  everything  being  stowed  away,  as  if 
there  were  an  earthquake  regularly  every  half  hour. 

"  How's  Gills?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

Walter,  who  had  oy  this  time  recovered  hie  brej.th, 
and  lost  his  spirits— or  sucb  temporary  spirits  as  his 
rapid  journey  liad  given  him— looked  at  his  questioner 
for  a  moment,  said  "Ob,  Captain  Cuttle!"  and  Wrst  into 
tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  captain's  consternation  at 
this  sight.  Mrs.  MacStinger  faded  into  nothing  before  it. 
He  dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork — and  would  have 
droppea  the  knife  toa  if  he  could^and  sat  gazing  at  the 
boy,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear  next  moment  that  a  gulf 
had  opened  in  tne  city,  which  had  swallowed  up  hia  old 
frieno,  coffee-colored  suit,  buttons,  chronometer,  spec- 
tacles, and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  what  was  really  the  matter. 
Captain  Cuttle,  after  a  moment's  reflet^tioii,  started  up 
into  full  activity.  He  emptied  out  of  a  little  tin  can- 
ister on  the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock 
of  ready  money  (amounting  to  thirteen  pounds  and 
half -a-crown),  which  he  transferred  to  one  of  the  pockets 
of  his  square  blue  coat:  further  enriched  that  repository 
with  the  contents  of  his  plate  chest,  consisting  of  two 
withered  atomies  of  tea-spoons,  and  an  obsolete  pair 
of  knock-knee'd  sugar-tongs;  pulled  up  his  immense 
double-cased  silver  watch  from  the  depths  in  which  it 
reposed,  to  assure  himself  that  that  valuable  was  sound 
and  whole;  re-attached  the  rlook  to  his  right  wrist;  and 
seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with  nobs,  bade  Walter 
come  along. 

Remembering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous 
excitement,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in  wait 
below.  Captain  Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without 
glancing  at  the  window,  as  if  he  had  some  thought  of 
escaping  by  that  unusual  means  of  egress,  rather  than 
encounter  his  terrible  enemy.  He  decided,  however, 
in  favor  of  stratagem. 

"Wal'r."  said  the  Captain,  with  a  timid  wink,  "go 
afore,  my  lad.  Singout,. '  good  by.  Captain  Cuttle,'  when 
you're  in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Then  wait  at 
the  corner  of  the  street  'till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a  previouR 
knowledge  of  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  wYieti  "^  aXlw  ^«.A. 


128  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

down-stairs,  Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  outof  thelittieback 
kitchen,  like  an  avenging  spirit.  But  not  gliding  out 
upon  the  captain,  as  she  Bad  expected,  she  merely 
made  a  further  allusion  to  the  knocker,  and  glided  in 
again. 

Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could 
summon  courage  to  attempt  bis  escape;  for  Walter 
waited  so  long  at  the  street  corner,  looking  back  at  the 
house,  before  there  were  any  symtoms  of  the  hard  glazed 
hat.  At  length  the  captain  burst  out  of  the  door  with 
the  suddenness  of  an  explosion,  and  coming  towards 
him  at  a  great  pace,  and  never  once  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  pretended  as  soon  as  they  were  wellout  of  the 
street,  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal'r?"  inquired  the  cap- 
tain, as  they  were  walking  akmjj. 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning, 
you  would  never  have  forgotten  it.'" 

"Walk  fast,  Wal'r,  my  lad."  returned  the  captain, 
mending  his  pace:  "and  walk  the  same  all  the  days  of 
vour  life.  Overhaul  the  catechism  for  that  advice,  and 
keep  it!" 

The  captain  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of 
Solomon  Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflections 
on  his  late  escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any 
further  quotations  on  the  way  for  Walter's  moral  im- 
provement. Thev  interchanged  no  other  word  until  they 
arrived  at  old  Sol's  door,  where  the  unfortunate  wooden 
midshipman,  with  his  instAiment  at  his  eye,  seemed  to 
I)e  surveying  the  whole  horizon  in  search  of  some  friend 
to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty. 

"Gillsl"  said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back 
parlor,  and  taking  liim  by  the  hana  quite  tenderly. 
•'  Lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through 
it.  All  you've  got  to  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  the 
solemnity  of  a  man  who  was  delivering  himself  of  one 
of  the  most  precious  practical  tenets  ever  discovered  bv 
human  wisdoln,  "  is  to  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind., 
and  we'll  fight  through  iti" 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the 
nature  of  the  occa-sion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two 
tea-spoons  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON,  I:i!) 

ready  money;  and  asked  Mr,  Brogley,  tliu  Ijiokor,  what 
the  damage  was. 

"Come!  What  do  you  make  of  it?"  euid  Captain 
Cuttle. 

"Why,  Lord  help  you!"  returned  the  broker;  "you 
don't  suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you?" 

"  Why  not? "  inquired  the  captain. 

"Why?  The  amount's  three  humlred  and  seventy, 
odd,"  replied  the  broker. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  the  captain,  though  he  was 
evidentlydismayed  by  thefigures:  "airsfish  tliutcoincH 
to  your  net,  I  suppose?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  "But  Nprats  aji't 
whales,  you  know." 

The  philosophy  of  this  obsevation  stemedto  Htrikutln.^ 
captain.  Herumiuatedforaminute;  eyeing  the  bniker, 
meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius;  and  then  cutlerl  tliu 
instrument-maker  aside. 

"  Gills,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearingH  of 
this  business?    Who's  the  creditor?  " 

"  Hush! "  returned  the  old  man,  "  Come  away.  Don't 
speak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for  Wully'o 
father — an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  dual  of  it,  Ni;il, 
but  the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't  do  more 
just  now;  I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Not 
a  word  before  Wally,  for  all  the  w<irld." 

"You've  got  some  money,  haven't  you?"  whieiiered 
the  captain. 

"Yes,  yea — oh  yes — I've  got  some,"  returned  old  Ho\, 
first  putting  his  liands  into  his  empty  pocketif,  and  then 
squeezing  his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  an  if  he  thought 
he  might  wring  some  gold  out  of  it;  "  but  I — the  litths  I 
have  got  isn't  convertible,  Ned;  it  can't  W^jotat,  I  have 
been  trying  to  do  something  with  it  for  Vt  ally,  and  I'm 
old-fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It's  here  and  then-, 
and — and,  in  8hort,it'8  aw  good  as  nowhere,"  said  theold 
man,  looking  in  bewilderment  al>out  him. 

He  had  bo  much  the  air  of  a  half-witte^I  \>*:Tnim  who 
had  been  hiding  his  monev  in  a  variety  of  pla/;t-H,  and 
had  forgotten  where,  that  the  captain  follow*,-d  his  ey<^, 
not  without  a  faint  hope  tliat  he  might  rememlxfr  some 
few  hundred  pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  'lowii 
in  the  cellar.    But  .Solombn  Gill.s  len'rw  l>^tt^r  than  that. 

"  I'm  behind  the  time  alt'/g<;lh«;r,  iny  Acm  ^tiX"  -wivX 


130  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Sol,  iu  resigned  despair,  "  a  loiig  way.  It's  no  use  my 
laKeing  on  so  far  behind  it.  The  stock  had  better  be 
sold— it's  worth  more  than  this  debt — and  I  had  better 
go  and  die  somewhere  on  the  balance.  I  haven't  any 
energy  left.  I  don't  understand  things.  This  had  bet- 
ter be  the  end  of  it.  Let  'em  sell  tlie  stock  and  take 
kim  down,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  feebly  to  the 
wooden  midshipman,  "and  let  us  both  be  broken  up 
together." 

"  And  what  d'ye  mean  to  do  withWal'rP"  said  the 
captain.  "  There,  therel  Sit  ye  down,  Gills,  sit  ye 
down,  and  let  me  think  o'  this.  If  I  warn't  a  man  on  a 
small  annuity,  that  was  large  enough  until  to-day,  1 
hadn't  need  to  think  of  it.  But  you  only  lay  your  head 
well  to  the  wind,"  said  the  captam,  again  aamiuistering 
that  unanswerable  piece  of  consolation,  "and  you're  all 
right! " 

Old  Sol  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  and 
laid  it  against  the  back  parlor  fireplace  instead. 

Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  " 
some  time,  cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  his 
bushy  black  eyebrows  to  bear  so  heavily  on  nis  nose, 
like  clouds  settling  on  a  mountain,  that  Walter  was 
afraid  to  offer  any  interniption  to  the  current  of  bis 
reflections.  Mr.  Brogley,  wlio  was  averse  to  being  any 
constraint  upon  the  party,  and  who  had  an  ingenious 
cast  of  mind,  went,  softly  whistling,  among  the  stock; 
rattling  weather  glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they 
were  physic,  catching  up  keys  with  loadstones,  looking 
through  telescopes,  enaeavoring  to  make  liimself  ac- 
quainted with  the  use  of  the  globes,  setting  parallel 
rulers  astride  on  to  his  nose,  and  amusing  himself  with 
other  philosophical  transactions. 

"  Wal'r! "  said  the  captain  at  last.     "  I've  got  it," 

"Have  you,  Captain  Cuttle?"  cried  Waiter,  with 
great  animation. 

"Come  this  way,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "The 
stock's  one  security.  I'm  another.  Your  governor's 
the  man  to  advance  the  money." 

"Mr.  Itombey!"  faltered  Walter. 

The  captain  nodded  gravely.  "  Look  at  him,"  he 
said.  "  Look  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these  things 
now,  he'd  die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  We  mustn't 
leave  a  stone  unturned — and  there's  a  stone  for  you." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  131 

L  stone — Mr.  Dombey!"  faltered  Walter. 

Tou  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if 

there,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the 

"Quick!" 
liter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command — a 
•e  at  his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he 
elt  otherwise — and  disappeared  to  execute  it.    He 

returned,  out  of  breatli,  to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey 
not  there.  It  was  Saturday,  and  he  had  gone  to 
iton. 

tell  you  what,  Wal'r!"  said  the  captain,  who 
ed  to  have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in 
phseoce.  "We'll  go  to  Brighton.  I'll  back  you, 
oy,  I'll  back  you,  Wal'r.  We'll  go  to  Brighton  by 
ftemoon's  coach." 

:he  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  all, 
h  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he  would 
T  prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed  by 
lersonal  influence  of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  which  he 
ly  thought  Mr.  Dombey  would  attach  much  weight, 
as  the  captain  appeared  to  be  of  quite  another 
on,  and  was  bent  upon  it,  and  as  his  friendship 
;no  zealous  and  serious  to  be  trifled  with  by  one  so 
I  younger  than   himself,  he  forebore  to  hint  the 

objection.  Cuttle,  therefore,  taking  a  hurried 
1  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  returning  the  ready  money, 
ea-spoons.  the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  silver  watch. 
B  pockets— with  a  view,  as  Walter  thought,  with 
ir,  to  making  a  gorgeous  impression  on  ftlr.  Dom- 
■bore  him  off  to  the  coach-office,  wi  thout  a  minute's 
■,  and  repeatedly  assured  him,  on  the  road,  that  he 
i  stick  by  him  to  the  last. 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


132  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

CHAPTER  X. 

CONTAnnNG  THE  SEQUEL  OF  THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  DISASTER. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  a  long  and  frequent  observa- 
tion of  Paul,  across  Princess's-place,  through  his  double 
barrelled  opera  glass;  and  after  receiving  many  minute 
reports,  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject, 
from  the  native,  who  kept  himself  in  constant  commu- 
nication with  Miss  Tox's  maid  for  that  purpose;  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  Dombey,  sir,  was  a  man  to  be  known, 
and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to  make  his  acquaintance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  behav- 
ior, and  frigidly  declining  to  understand  the  major 
whenever  he  called  (which  he  often  did)  on  any  little 
fishing  excursion  connected  with  this  project,  the  ma- 
jor, in  spite  of  his  constitutional  toughness  and  slyness, 
was  fain  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  bis  desire  in 
some  measure  to  chance,  "  which,"  as  he  was  used  to 
observe  with  chuckles  at  his  club,  "  has  been  fifty  to  one 
in  favor  of  Joey  B.,  sir,  ever  since  his  elder  brother 
died  of  Yellow  Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present  in- 
stance, but  it  befriended  nim  at  last.  When  the  dark 
servant,  with  full  particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent 
on  Brighton  service,  the  major  was  suddenly  touched 
with  affectionate  reminiscences  of  his  friend  Bill  Bither- 
stone  of  Bengal,  who  had  written  to  ask  him,  if  he  ever 
went  that  way,  to  bestow  a  call  upon  his  only  son.  But 
when  the  same  dark  servant  reported  Paul  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's,  and  the  major,  referring  to  the  letter  favored  by 
Master  Bitherstone  on  his  arrival  in  England — to  which 
he  had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  paying  any  attention 
— saw  the  opening  that  presented  itself,  he  was  made  so 
rabid  by  the  gout,  with  which  he  happened  to  be  then 
laid  up,  that  ne  threw  a  footstool  at  tne  dark  servant  in 
return  for  his  intelligence,  and  swore  he  would  be  the 
death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done  with  him:  which 
the  dark  servant  was  more  than  half  disposed  to  helieye. 

At  length  the  major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went 
one  Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  nat- 
ive behind  him:  apostrophising  Miss  Tox  all  the  way,  and 
gloating  over  the  prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the  dis- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  133 

tin^ished  friend  to  whom  she  attached  so  much  mys- 
tery, and  for  whom  she  had  deserted  him. 

"Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you!  "said  the  major, 
straioiog  with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  al- 
ready swollen  vein  in  his  head,  "Would  you  give  Joey 
B.  the  go-by,  ma'am?  Not  yet,  ma'am,  notyetl  Damme, 
not  yet,  sir.  Joe  is  awake,  ma'am,  Bagstock  is  alive, 
sir.  J.  B.  knows  a  move  or  two,  ma'am.  Josh  has  his 
weather-eye  open,  sir.  You'll  find  him  tough,  ma'am. 
Tough,  sir,  tough  is  Joseph.     Tough  and  de-vil-ish  sly!'' 

And  very  tough  indeed  Master  Bitherstone  found  hira. 
when  he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a  walk. 
But  the  major,  with  his  complexion  like  a  Stilton  cheese, 
and  his  eyes  like  a  prawn's,  went  roving  about,  perfectly 
indifferent  to  Master  Bitherstone's  amusement,  and 
dragging  Master  Bitherstone  along,  while  he  looked 
about  him  high  and  low  for  Mr.  Domhey  and  his 
children. 

In  good  time  the  major,  previously  instructed  hy  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  and  bore  down 
upon  them;  there  being  a  stately  gentleman  (Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  doubtless)  in  their  company.  Charcing  with  Mr. 
Bitherstone  into  the  very  heart  of  the  little  squadron,  it 
fell  out,  of  course,  that  Master  Bitherstone  spoke  to  his 
fellow-sufferers.  Upon  that  the  major  stopped  to  notice 
and  admire  them;  remembered  with  amazement  that  he 
had  seen  and  spoken  to  them  at  his  friend  Miss  Tox's  in 
Princess's- pi  ace;  opined  that  Paul  was  a  devilish  fine 
fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend;  inquired  if  he  remem- 
bered Joey  B.  the  major;  and  finally,  with  a  sudden  rec- 
ollection of  the  conventionalities  of  life,  turned  and 
apologised  to  Mr.  Dombev. 

"  But  my  little  friend,  here,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
"  makes  a  boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier,  sir — Major 
Bagstock,  at  your  service— is  not  ashamed  to  confess  it." 
Here  the  major  lifted  his  hat.  "  Damme,  sir,"  cried 
the  major  with  a  sudden  warmth,  "I  envy  you."  Then 
he  recollected  himself,  and  added,"  Excuse  my  freedom." 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  he  wouldn't  mention  it. 

"  An  old  campaigner,  sir,"  said  the  major,  '*  a  smoke- 
dried,  sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a  major, 
sir,  was  not  afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim 
by  a  man  like  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have  the  bouot  ol  la-V 
dressing  Mr.  Dombey,  I  believe?" 


134  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  am  the  present  unworthy  representative  of  that 
name,  major,    returned  Mr.  Dombey, 

"By  G — ,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "it's  a  great  name. 
It's  a  name,  sir,"  said  the  major  firmly,  as  if  he  defied 
Mr.  Dombev  to  contradict  it,  and  would  feel  it  his  pain- 
ful duty  to  DuUy  him  if  he  did,  "that  is  known  and  hon- 
ored in  the  British  possessions  abroad.  It  is  a  name, 
sir,  that  a  man  is  proud  to  recognise.  There  is  nothing 
adulatory  in  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir.  His  Royal  High- 
ness the  Duke  of  York  observed  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion 'there  is  no  adulation  in  Joey.  He  is  a  plain  old 
soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a  fault  is  Joseph:'  but  it's 
a  great  name,  sir.  By  the  Lord,  it's  a  great  name!" 
said  the  major,  solemnly. 

"You  are  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  de- 
serves perhaps,  major,'"  returned  Mr.  Domhey. 

"  No,  sir,"  sard  the  major.  "  My  little  friend  here,  sir, 
will  certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a  thorough- 
going, down-right,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  sir,  and 
nothing  more.  That  boy,  sir."'  said  the  major  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  will  live  in  history.  That  boy,  sir.  is  not  a  com- 
mon production.    Take  care  of  him,  Mr,  Dombey," 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  en- 
deavor to  do  so. 

"  Here  is  a  boy  here,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  confi- 
dentially, and  giving  him  a  thrust  with  his  cane.  "Son 
of  Bitherstone  of  Beneal,  Bill  Eitherstone  formerly  of 
ours.  That  boy's  fattier  and  myself,  sir,  were  sworn 
friends.  Wherever  you  went,  sir,  you  heard  of  nothing 
but  Bill  Eitherstone  and  Joe  Bagstock.  Am  I  blind  to 
that  boy's  defects?    By  no  means.     He's  a  fool,  sir," 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libelled  Master  Either- 
stone of  whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  major 
did,  and  said,  in  quite  a  complacent  manner,  "Really?" 

"That  is  what  he  is,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "Hes  a 
fool.  Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of 
my  old  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal  is  a  born  fool, 
sir."  Here  the  major  laughed  till  he  was  almost  black. 
"  My  little  friend  is  destined  for  a  public  school.  I  pre- 
sume, Mr.  Dombey?"  said  the  major  when  he  had  re- 
covered. 

'■  I  am  not  quite  decided,"  returned  Mr.  Domhey.  "  I 
think  not.     He  is  delicate." 

■■If  he's  delicate,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  are  right. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Uo 

None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it,  sir,  at 
Sandhurst.  We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there,  sir. 
We  roasted  the  new  fellows  at  a  slow  fire,  and  hung  'em 
out  of  a  three  pair  of  stairs  window,  with  their  heads 
downwards.  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir,  was  held  out  of  the 
window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots  for  thirteen  minutes 
by  the  college  clock." 

The  major  might  have  appealed  to  his  countenance  in 
corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  he 
had  hung  oiit  a  little  too  long. 

"  But  it  made  us  what  we  were,  sir."  said  the  major, 
settling  his  shirt  frill.  "  We  were  iron,  sir,  and  it  forged 
us.     Are  you  remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey;-"' 

"I  generally  come  down  once  a  week,  major,"  re- 
turned that  gentleman.     "  I  stay  at  the  Bedford." 

"  I  shall  have  the  honorof  calling  at  the  Bedford,  sir, 
if  you'll  permit  me."  said  the  major.  "Joey  B.,  sir,  is 
not  in  general  a  calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey's  is  not  a 
common  name.  I  am  much  indebted  to  my  little  friend, 
sir,  for  the  honor  of  this  introduction." 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a  very  gracious  reply;  and  Major 
BagstocK,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of 
Florence  that  her  eyes  would  play  the  devil  with  the 
youngsters  before  long — "and  the  oldsters  too,  sir,  if 
you  come  to  that,"  added  the  major,  chuckling  very 
much — stirred  up  Master  Bitherstone  with  his  walking- 
stick,  and  departed  with  that  young  gentleman,  at  a 
kind  of  half-trot;  rolling  his  head  and  coughing  with 
great  dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his  legs  very 
wide  asunder. 

In  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  major  afterwards 
called  on  Mr.  Dombey;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  re- 
ferred to  the  army  list,  afterwards  called  on  the  major. 
Then  the  major  called  at  Mr.  Dombey's  house  in  town; 
and  came  down  again,  in  the  same  coach  as  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, In  short.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  got  on  un- 
commonly well  together,  and  uncommonly  fast:  and 
Mr.  Dombey  observed  of  the  major,  to  his  sister,  that 
besides  being  quite  a  military  man  he  was  really  some- 
thing more,  as  he  had  a  very  admirable  idea  of  the  im- 
portance of  things  unconnected  with  his  own  profession. 

At  length  Mr.  Dombey,  bringing  down  Mies  Tox  and 
Mrs.  Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  fitvdm^  ftve  tcitl^ij^ 
again  at  Brighton,  invited  him  to  dmuex  a\,  \Yie  '&^^- 


136  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ford,  and  complimented  Mibs  Tox  hi^ly,  beforehand, 
on  her  neighbor  and  acquaintance.  Notwithstanding 
the  palpitation  of  the  heart  which  these  allusions  occa- 
sioned her,  they  were  anything  but  disagreeable  to  Misa 
Tox,  as  they  enabled  her  to  be  extremely  interesting, 
and  to  manifest  an  occasional  incoherence  and  distrac- 
tion which  §he  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  display.  The 
major  gave  her  abundant  opportunities  of  exhibiting 
this  emotion:  being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at  dinner, 
of  her  desertion  of  him  and  Prineess's-place :  and  as  he 
appeared  to  derive  great  enjoyment  from  making  them, 
they  all  got  on  very  well. 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  the  major  taking 
charge  of  the  whole  conversation,  and  showing  as  great 
an  appetite  in  that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various 
dainties  on  the  table,  among  which  he  ma;  be  almost 
said  to  have  wallowed:  greatly  to  the  aggravation  of 
his  inflammatory  tendencies.  Mr,  Dombey's  habitual 
silence  and  reserve  yielding  readily  to  this  usurpation, 
the  major  felt  that  he  was  coming  out  and  shining:  and 
in  the  flow  of  spirits  thus  engendered,  tang  such  an 
infinite  number  of  new  changes  on  his  own  name  that 
he  quite  astonished  himself.  In  a  word,  they  were  all 
very  well  pleased.  The  major  was  considered  to  pos- 
sess an  inexhaustible  fund  of  conversation:  and  when 
he  took  a  late  farewell,  aft^  a  long  rubber,  Mr.  Dombey 
again  complimented  the  blushing  Miss  Tox  on  her 
neighbor  and  acquaintance. 

But  all  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the  major 
incessantly  said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  "  Sly,  sir — 
sly,  sir — d.e-vil-ish  sly!"  And  when  he  got  there,  sat 
down  in  a  chair,  and  fell  into  a  silent  fit  of  laughter, 
with  which  he  was  sometimes  seized,  and  which  was 
always  particularly  awful.  It  held  him  so  long  on  this 
occasion  that  the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watching 
him  at  a  distance,  but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach, 
twice  or  thrice  gave  him  over  for  lost.  His  whole  form, 
but  especially  iiis  face  and  head,  dilated  beyond  all 
former  experience;  and  presented  to  the  dark  man's 
view,  nothing  but  a  heaving  mass  of  indigo.  At  length 
he  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  when 
that  was  a  little  better  burst  into  such  ejaculations  as 
the  following: 

"Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you?  Mrs.  Domboy,  efi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  137 

ma'am?  I  think  not,  ma'am.  Not  while  Joe  B.  can  put 
a  spoke  in  your  wheel,  ma'am.  J.  B.'s  even  with  you 
now,  ma'am.  He  isn't  altogether  bowled  out,  yet,  sir, 
isn't  Ba^tock.  She's  deep,  sir,  deep,  but  Josh  is  deeper. 
Wide  awake  is  old  Joe — broad  awate,  and  staring,  sir!" 
There  was  no  doubt  of  this  last  assertion  being  true, 
and  to  a  very  fearful  extent;  as  it  continued  to  be  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  that  night,  which  the  major 
chiefly  passed  in  similar  exclamations,  diversified  with 
fits  of  coughing  and  choking  that  started  the  whole 
house. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  occasion  (being  Sunday) 
when,  as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were 
sitting  at  breakfast,  still  eulogising  the  major,  Florence 
came  running  inr  her  face  suffused  with  a  bright  color, 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  joyfully:  and  cried. 

"Papa!  Papa!  Heres  Walterl  and  he  won't  come  in." 

"  Who?  "  cried  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  does  she  mean? 
What  is  this?  " 

"Walter,  papa,"  said  Florence. timidly;  sensible  of 
having  approacbed  the  presence  with  too  much  famili- 
arity.    "Who  found  me  when  I  was  lost." 

"  Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa?"  inquired  Mr. 
Dombey,   knotting  his   brows.      "Really,   this    child's 
manners  have  become   very   boisterous.      She  -  cannot  ~" 
mean  yoiing  Gay,  I  think.     See  what  it  is,  will  you." 

Mrs,  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned 
with  the  information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accom- 
panied by  a  very  strange-looking  person;  and  that 
young  Gay  said  he  would  not  take  the  liberty  of  com- 
ing in,  hearing  Mr.  Dombey  was  at  breakfast,  but 
would  wait  until  Mr,  Dombey  should  signify  that  he 
might  approach. 

"  Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,"  said  Mr,  Dombey, 
"  Now,  Gay,  what  is  the  matter?  Who  sent  you  down 
here?  Was  there  nobody  else  to  come? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  returned  Walter,  "I  have 
not  been  sent.  I  have  been  so  bold  as  to  come  on  my 
own  account,  which  I  hope  you'll  pardon  when  I  men- 
tion the  cause." 

But  Mr.  -Dombey,  without  attending  to  what  he  said, 
was  looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he 
were  a  pillar  in  his  way)  at  some  object  VieVmo.. 

"  Wbnt's  that?"  said  Mr.  Dombey.      "  ^\vo  Va  \X\^Vt 


.138  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

I  think  you    have  made  some  mistake  in  the  door, 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  sir,"  cried 
Walter,  hastily:  "but  this  is — this  is  Captain  Cuttle,  sir." 

"■Wal'r  my  lad,"  observed  the  captain  in  a  deep  voice: 
"stand  by!" 

At  the  same  time  the  captain,  coming  a  little  further 
in,  brought  ouE  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous 
shirt  coUar,  and  bis  knobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood 
bowing  to  Mr,  Dombey,  and  waving  his  hook  politely  to 
the  ladies,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand, 
and  a  red  equator  round  his  head  which  it  had  newly 
imprinted  there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amaze- 
ment and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  ap- 
peal to  Mrs,  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  against  it.  Little 
Paul,  who  had  come  in  after  Florence,  backed  towards 
Miss  Tox  as  the  captain  waved  his  hook,  and  stood  on 
the  defensive . 

"Now,  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "What  have  you 
got  to  say  tome?" 

Again  the  captain  observed,  as  a  general  opening  of 
the  conversation  tliat  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all 
parties,  "  Wal'r,  stand  by!  " 
"^  "I  am  afraid,  sir."  began  Walter,  trembling,  and 
looking  down  at  the  ground,  "  that  I  take  a  very  great 
liberty  in  coming — indeed,  I  am  sure  I  do,  I  snould 
hardly  have  had  Uie  courage  to  ask  to  see  you,  sir,  even 
after  coming  down,  I  am  afraid,  if  I  had  not  overtaken 
Miss  Dombey,  and — '" 

"Well!"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he 
glanced  at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  uncon- 
sciously as  she  encouraged  him  with  a  smile.     "  Go  on,  ' 
if  you  please." 

"Aye,  aye,"  observed  the  captain,  considering  it  in- 
cumbent on  him,  as  a  point  of  good  breeding,  to  sup- 
port Mr,  Dombey,     "  Well  said!     Go  on,  Wal'r." 

Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the 
look  which  Mr.  Domoey  bestowed  upon  him  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  patronage.  But  quite  innocent  of  this, 
he  closed  one  eye  in  reply,  and  gave  Mr,  Dombey  to  un- 
derstand, by  certain  significant  motions  of  his  hook, 
that  Walter  was  a  little  bashful  at  first,  and  might  be 
expected  to  come  out  shortly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ]:j!J 

•'  It  is  entirely  a  private  and  personal  matter  tliat  has 
brought  me  here,  sir,"  continued  Walter,  faltering, 
"  and  Captain  Cuttle — " 

*'  Here! "'  interposed  the  captain,  as  an  assurance  that 
he  was  at  hand,  and  might  he  relied  upon. 

"Who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle's,  and  a 
most  excellent  man,  sir,"  pursued  Walter,  raiBliifj  his 
eyes  with  a  look  of  entreaty  in  the  captain's  beiialf. 
"was  so  good  as  to  offer  to  come  with  me,  which  I 
could  hardly  refuse." 

"No,  no,  no,"  observed  the  captain  complacently, 
"  Of  course  not.     No  call  for  refusing.     "  Go  on,  Wal'r."' 

"  And  therefore,  sir,"  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet 
Mr.  Dombey's  eye.  and  proceeding  with  better  courage 
in  the  very  desperation  of  the  case,  now  that  there  was 
no  avoiding  it,  "therefore  I  have  come  with  him,  sir,  to 
say  that  my  poor  old  uncle  is  in  very  great  affliction 
and  distress!  That  through  the  gradual  loss  of  bis  busi- 
ness, and  not  being  able  to  make  a  payment,  the  appre- 
hension of  which  has  weighed  very  heavily  upon  his 
mind,  months  and  months,  as  indeed  I  know,  sir.  he  has 
an  execution  in  his  house,  and  is  in  danger  of  losing  all 
he  has,  and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you  would, 
in  your  kindness,  and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him  as 
a  respectable  man,  do  anything  to  help  him  out  of 
his  difficulty,  sir,  we  never  could  thank  you  enough 
for  it," 

Walter's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  bespoke;  and  so  did 
those  of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening, 
though  he  appeared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

"It  is  a  very  large  sum,  sir,"  said  Walter.  "More 
than  three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten 
down  by  his  misfortune,  it  hes  so  heavy  on  him;  and  is 

auite  unable  to  do  anything  for  his  own  relief.  Ho 
oesn't  even  know  yet  that  I  have  come  to  speak  to 
you.  You  would  wish  me  to  say,  sir,"  added  Walter, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "  exactly  what  it  is  I  want. 
I  really  don't  know,  sir.  There  is  my  uncle's  stock,  on 
which  I  believe  I  may  say,  confidently,  there  are  no 
other  demands,  and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would 
wish  to  be  securitv  too.  I — I  hardly  like  to  mention." 
said  Walter,  "  suen  earnings  as  mine;  but  if  you  would 
allow  them— accumulate — ^payment — artvanc^ — -MutiNe. — 
frugal,  honorable  oldman.      Walter  ttaiVe  A  oft  Vcwcfti^ 


140  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

these  broken  sentences,  into  silence;  and  stood,  with 
downcast  head,  before  his  employer. 

OonHidoriiig  this  a  favorable  moment  for  the  display 
of  the  valuables.  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table; 
und  clearing  a  space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  Mr. 
Uombey's  eTbow.  produced  the  silver  watch,  tbe  ready 
money,  the  tea-8i>oons,  and  the  sugar-tongs;  and  piling 
them  up  into  a  heap  that  they  might  look  as  precious  as 
poHsible.  delivered  himself  of  these  words: 

"Half  a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same 
remark  holds  good  with  crumbs.  There's  a  few.  An- 
nuity of  one  hundred  pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be 
made  over.  If  there  is  a  man  chock  full  of  science  in 
the  world,  it's  old  Sol  Uills.  If  there  is  a  lad  of  promise 
—one  flowing,"  added  the  captain,  in  one  of  his  happy 
quotations,  "  with  milk  and  honey — it's  hia  nevy! " 

The  captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where 
he  stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a  difficult 
performance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes 
were  attracted  to  little  Paul,  who,  seeing  his  sister  hang- 
ing down  her  head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commis- 
eration for  the  distress  she  had  heard  described,  went 
over  to  her,  and  tried  to  comfort  her:  looking  at  Walter 
and  his  father,  as  he  did  bo,  with  a  very  expressive 
face.  After  the  momentary  distraction  of  Captain  Cut^ 
tie's  address,  which  he  regarded  with  lofty  indifference, 
Mr.  Dombey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  eon,  and 
sat  steadily  regarding  the  child,  for  some  moments,  in 
silence. 

■'What  was  this  debt  contracted  for?"  asked  Mr. 
Domhey.  at  length.     "  Who  is  the  creditor?" 

"  He  don't  know."  replied  the  captain,  putting  his 
hand  on  Walter's  shoulder.  "  I  do.  It  came  of  helping 
a  man  that's  dead  now.  and  that's  cost  my  friend  GiIIb 
many  a  hundred  pound  already.  More  particulars  in 
private,  if  agreeable." 

"People  who  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own 
way."  said  Mr.  Dombev.  unobservant  of  the  captain's 
mysterious  signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  his 
son,  ••  Iiad  better  be  content  with  their  own  obligations 
tmd  ilifficulties,  and  not  increase  them  by  engaging  for 
other  men.     It  is  an  act  of  dishonesty,  and  presump- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  141 

tiou  too,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly;  "  great  presump- 
tion; for  the  wealthy  could  do  no  more.  Paul,  come 
here! " 

The  child  obeyed:  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  his 
knee. 

"  If  you  had  money  now — "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Look 
at  me! 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to 
Walter,  looke<l  his  father  in  the  face. 

"  If  you  had  money  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey;  "  as 
much  money  as  young  Gay  has  talked  about:  what 
would  you  do?" 

"  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,"  returned  Paul. 

"Lend  it  to  his  old  uncle,  eh?"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Well!  When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know,  you  will 
share  my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together." 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been 
tutored  early  in  the  phrase. 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  repeated  his  father,  "Would 
you  like  to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  now,  and  lend 
this  money  to  young  Gay's  uncle?" 

"Oh!  if  you  please,  papa!"  said  Paul;  "and  so  would 
Florence. " 

"  Girls,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Dombey  and  Son.     Would  you  like  it? " 

"Yes,  papa,  yes! " 

"Then  you  shall  do  it,"  returned  his  father.  "And 
you  see,  Paul,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "how 
powerful  money  is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get 
it.  Young  Gay  comes  all  this  way  to  beg  for  money, 
and  you,  who  are  so  grand  and  great,  havmg  got  it,  are 
going  to  let  him  have  it,  as  a  great  favor  and  obliga- 
tion." 

Paul  turned  up  the  old  face  for  a  moment,  in  which 
there  was  a  sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  con- 
veyed in  these  words:  but  it  was  a  young  and  childish 
face  immediately  afterwards,  when  he  slipped  down 
from  his  father^s  knee,  and  ran  to  tell  Florence  not  to 
cry  any  more,  for  he  was  going  to  let  young  Gay  have 
the  money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a  side-table,  and  wrote  a 
note  and  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Flor- 
ence whispered  to  Walter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed 
on  the  three,  with  such  aspiring  and  vneftaXA"^  V^ft- 


Ui  DOMEEY  AND  SON. 

sumptuous  thoughts  as  Mr,  Dombey  never  could  have 
believed  in.  The  note  beiug  finished,  Mr  Dombey 
turned  round  to  his  former  place,  and  held  it  out  to 
Walter. 

"Give  that."  he  said,  "the  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning,  to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take 
care  that  one  of  my  people  releases  your  uncle  from  his 
present  position,  by  paying  the  amount  at  issue;  and 
that  such  arrangements  are  made  for  its  repayment  as 
may  be  consistent  with  your  uncle's  circumstances. 
You  will  consider  that  this  is  done  for  you  by  Master 
Paul." 

Walter,  in  tlie  emotion  of  holding  in  bis  hand  the 
means  of  releasing  his  good  uncle  from  his  trouble, 
would  have  endeavored  to  express  something  of  bis 
gratitude  and  joy.    But  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  him  short. 

"You  will  consider  that  it  is  done,'*  he  repeated,  "by 
Master  Paul.  I  have  explained  that  to  him,  and  he  un- 
derstands it,     I  wish  no  more  to  be  said."' 

As  he  motioned  towards  the  door,  Walter  could  only 
bow  his  head  and  retire.  Miss  Tox,  seeing  that  the  cap- 
tain appeared  about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  at 
whose  munificence  both  she  and  Mrs.  Chick  were  shed- 
ding tears  copiously;  "I  think  you  have  overlooked 
something.  Pard<m  me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  think,  in  the 
nobility  of  your  character,  and  its  exalted  scope,  you 
have  omitted  a  matter  of  detail," 

■■  Indeed,  Miss  Toxl"  said  Mr.  Domhey. 

"  The  gentleman  with  the Instrument,"  pursued 

Miss  Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  •'has  left  upon 
the  table,  at  your  elbow — " 

"Good  Heaven!"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the 
captain's  property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much  crumb 
indeed.  "Take  these  things  away.  I  am  obliged  to 
you,  Miss  Tox;  it  is  like  your  usual  discretion.  Have 
the  goodness  to  take  these  things  away,  sir! "' 

Captain  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  com- 
ply. But  he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  in  refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up 
to  his  hand,  that  when  he  nad  deposited  the  tea-spoons 
and  sugar-tongs  iu  one  jiocket,  and  the  ready  money  in 
another,  and  had  lowered  the  great  watch  down  slowly 
into  its  proper  vault,  be  could  not  refrain  from  seizing 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  143 

that  gentleman's  right  hand  in  his  own  solitary  left,  and 
while  he  held  it  open  with  his  powerful  fingers,  bring- 
ing the  book  down  upon  its  palm  in  a  transport  of  ad- 
miration. At  this  touch  of  warm  feeling  anu  cold  iron, 
Mr.  Dombey  shivered  all  over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  his  hook  to  the  ladies  sev- 
eral times,  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry;  and  hav- 
ing taken  a  particular  leave  of  Paul  ana  Florence, 
accompanied  Waiter  out  of  the  room.  Florence  was 
running  after  them  in  the  earnestness  of  her  heart,  to 
send  some  message  to  old  Sol,  when  Mr.  Dombey  called 
her  back,  and  bade  her  stay  where  she  was. 

"  Will  you  never  be  a  Dombey,  my  dear  childl "  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  pathetic  reproachfulness, 

'•  Dear  aunt,''  said  Florence.  "  Don't  be  angry  with 
me.    I  am  so  thankful  to  papa! " 

She  would  have  run  anu  thrown  her  arms  about  his 
neck  if  she  had  dared;  but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she 
glanced  with  thajikful  &yes  towards  him,  as  he  sat 
musing;  sometimes  bestowing  an  uneasy  glance  on  her, 
but  for  the  most  part,  watching  Paul,  who  walked  about 
the  room  with  the  new-blown  dignity  of  having  let  young 
Gay  have  the  money. 

And  young  Gay — Walter — what  of  him? 

He  was  overjoyed  to  burge  the  old  man's  hearth  from 
bailiffs  and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with 
good  tidings.  He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  arranged 
and  settled  next  day  before  noon;  and  to  sit  down  at 
evening  in  the  little  back  parlor  with  old  Sol  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle;  and  to  see  the  Instrument-maker  already 
reviving,  and  hopeful  for  the  future,  and  feeling  that 
the  wooden  midshipman  was  his  own  again.  But  with- 
out the  least  impeachment  of.  his  gratitude  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, it  must  be  confessed  that  Walter  was  humbled  and 
cast  down.  It  is  when  our  budding  hopes  are  nipped 
beyond  recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are  the 
most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they 
might  have  borne,  if  they  had  flourished;  and  now, 
when  Walter  felt  himself  cut  oflf  from  that  great  Dombey 
height,  by  the  depth  of  a  new  and  terrible  tumble,  and 
felt  that  all  his  old  wild  fancies  had  been  scattered  to 
the  winds  in  the  fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that  they 
might  have  led  him  on  to  harmless  visions  of  aspiring 
to  Florence  in  the  reniote  distance  of  time. 


144  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a  different 
light.  He  appeared  to  entertain  a  belief  that  the  inter- 
view at  which  he  had  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory 
and  encouraging  as  to  be  only  a  step  or  two  removed 
from  a  regular  betrothal  of  Florence  to  Walter;  and 
that  the  late  transaction  had  immensely  forwarded,  if 
not  thoroughly  established,  the  Whittingtonian  hopes. 
Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and  by  the  improvement 
in  the  spirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  "by  his  owd  conse- 
quent gaiety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favoring  them  with 
the  baUad  of  "Lovely  Peg  for  the  third  time  in  one 
evening,  to  make  an  extemporaneous  substitution  of 
the  name  "Florence;"  but  finding  this  difficult,  on  ac- 
count of  the  word  Peg  invariably  rhyming  to  leg  (in 
which  personal  beauty  the  original  was  described  as 
having  excelled  all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the  happv 
thought  of  changing  it  to  Fie — e— eg;  which  he  accord- 
ingly did,  with  an  archness  almost  supernatural,  and  a 
voice  quite  vociferous,  notwithstanding  that  the  time 
was  close  at  hand  when  he  must  seek  the  abode  of  the 
dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Paul's  introduction  to  a  neW8cene. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard 
metal,  in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fleshly  weaknesses  of 
standing  in  need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requiring 
to  be  coaxed  to  sleep  by  the  soporific  ^ency  of  sweet- 
breads, that  it  utterly  set  at  nought  the  predictions  of 
Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no  symptoms  of  decline. 
Yet,  as  Paul's  rapt  interest  in  the  old  lady  continued 
unabated,  Mrs.  Wickam  would  not  budge  an  inch  from 
the  position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and  en- 
trencliing  herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle's 
Betsey  Jane,  she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a  friend,  to 

Erepare  herself  for  the  worst;  and  forewarned  her  that 
er  aunt  might,  at  any  time,  be  expected  to  go  off  sud- 
denly, like  a  powder-mill. 
Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  145 

slaved  away  as  usual;  perfectly  conTinced  that  Mrs. 
Fipchin  was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the 
world,  and  making  every  day  innumerable  sacrifices  of 
herself  upon  the  altar  or  that  noble  old  woman.  But  all 
these  immolations  of  Berry  were  somehow  carried  to 
the  credit  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  by  Mrs.  Pipchin's  friends 
and  admirers;  and  were  made  to  harmonise  with,  and 
carry  out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the  deceased  Mr. 
Pipchin  having  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

For  example,  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general 
dealer  in  the  retail  line  of  business,  between  whom  aud 
Mrs.  Pipchin  there  was  a  small  memorandum  book,  with 
a  greasy  red  cover,  perpetually  in  question,  and  concern- 
ing which  divers  secret  councils  and  conferences  were 
continually  being  held  between  the  parties  to  the  regis- 
ter, on  the  mat  in  the  passage,  and  with  closed  doors  ill 
the  parlor.  Nor  were  there  wanting  dark  hints  from 
Master  Bitherstone  (whose  temper  had  been  made  re- 
vengeful by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on  his  blood), 
of  Iwlances  unsettled,  and  of  a  failure,  on  one  occasion 
within  his  memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at  tea- 
time.  This  grocer  being  a  bachelor  and  not  a  man  who 
looked  upon  the  surface  for  beauty,  had  once  made  hon- 
orable offers  for  the  hand  of  Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had,  with  contumely  and  scorn,  rejected.  Everybody 
said  how  laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin,  relict  of  a 
man  who  had  died  of  the  Peruvian  mmes;  and  what  a 
staunch,  high,  independent  spirit,  the  old  lady  had. 
But  nobody  said  anything  about  poor  Berry,  who  cried 
for  six  weeks  (being  soundly  rated  by  her  good  aunt  all 
the  time),  and  lapsed  into  a  state  of  hopeless  spinster- 
hood. 

"Berry's  very  fond  of  you,  ain't  she?"  Paul  once 
asked  Mrs.  Pipchin  when  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire 
with  the  cat. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs,  Pipchin. 

"  Why?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Whyl "  returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  "  How 
can  you  ask  such  things,  sirl  why  are  you  fond  of  your 
sister  Florence?  " 

"Because  she's  very  good,"  said  Paul.  "There's  no- 
body like  Florence." 

"  Well!"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  "and  tVieie'^ 
nobody  like  me,  I  suppose." 


146  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Ain't  there  really  though?"  asked  Paul,  leaning  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  htu'd. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  lady, 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"oDBerved  Paul,  rubhing  his  hands 
thoughtfully.     "  That's  a  very  good  thing." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she 
should  receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer. 
But  as  a  compensation  to  her  wounded  feelings,  she 
harassed  Master  Bitherstone  to  that  extent  until  bed- 
time, that  he  began  that  very  night  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  an  overland  return  to  India,  by  secreting 
from  his  supper  a  quarter  of  a  round  of  bread  and  a 
fragment  of  moist  Dutch  cheese,  as  the  beginning  of  a 
stock  of  provision  to  support  him  on  the  voyage, 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little 
Paul  and  his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  They 
had  been  home  twice,  but  only  for  a  few  days;  and  had 
been  constant  in  their  weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Domhey  at 
the  hotel.  By  little  and  little  Paul  had  grown  stronger, 
and  had  become  able  to  dispense  with  his  carriage; 
though  he  still  looked  thin  and  delicate;  and  still  re- 
mained tlie  same  old,  quiet,  dreamy  child,  that  he  had 
been  when  first  consigned  to  Mrs,  ripchin's  care.  One 
Saturday  afternoon,  at  dusk,  great  consternation  was 
occasioned  in  the  castle  by  the  unlooked-for  announce- 
ment of  Mr.  Dombey  as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The 
population  of  the  parlor  was  immediately  swept  up- 
stairs as  on  the  wings  of  a  whirlwind,  and  after  much 
slamming  of  bedroom  doors,  and  trampling  over-head, 
and  some  knocking  about  of  Master  Bitherstone  by 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  as  a  relief  to  the  perturbation  of  her 
spirits,  the  black  bombazeen  garments  of  the  worthy 
old  lady  darkened  the  audience-chamber  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  contemplating  the  vacant  arm-chair  of  his 
son  and  heir. 

"Mrs,  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "How  do  you 
do?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "I  am  pretty 
well,  considering." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  wonls.  It 
meant,  considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so  forth. 

•■  I  can't  expect,  sir,  to  be  very  well."  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, taking  a  chair,  and  fetching  her  breath;  "but 
such  health  as  I  have,  i  am  grateful  for." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ]47 

Mr.  Dombey  inclined  hia  head  with  the  eatisfied  air 
of  a  patron  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for 
which  he  paid  so  much  a  quarter.  After  a  moment's 
silence  he  went  on  to  say: 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  to 
consult  you  in  reference  to  my  son.  I  Kave  had  it  in 
•  my  mind  to  do  so  for  some  time  past;  but  have  deferred 
it  from  time  to  time,  in  order  that  his  health  might  be 
thorouehly  re-estabbshed.  You  have  no  misgivings  on 
that  subject,  Mrs.  Pipchin?" 

"  Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial,  sir,"  returned 
Mrs.  Pipchin.     "  Very  beneficial,  indeed." 

"I  purpose,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  "his  remaining  at    ^ 
Brighton. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  bands,  and  bent  her  grey 
eyes  on  tne  fire. 

"  But,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  fore- 
finger, "but  possiblv  that  he  should  now  make  a 
change,  and  lead  a  different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  is  the  oWect  of  my  visit.  My  son  is 
getting  on,  Mrs,  Pipchin.     Really,  he  is  getting  on." 

There  was  sometbing  melancholy  in  the  triumphant 
air  with  which  Mr.  Dombey  said  this.  It  showed  how 
long  Paul's  childish  life  had  been  to  him,  and  how  bis 
hopes  were  set  upon  a  later  stage  of  his  existence. 
Pity  may  appear  a  strange  word  to  connect  with  any 
one  so  haughty  and  so  cold,  and  yet  he  seemed  a  worthy 
subject  for  it  at  that  moment. 

"  Six  years  old!  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neck- 
cloth—perhaps to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  that  rathei' 
seemea  to  strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance 
away,  as  finding  no  resting  place,  than  to  play  there  for 
an  instant.'  "  Dear  me,  six  will  be  changed  to  sixteen, 
I)efore  we  have  time  to  look  about  us." 

"Ten  years,"  croaked  the  unsympathetic  Pipchin, 
with  a  frosty  glistening  of  her  hard  grey  eye,  and  a 
dreary  shaking  of  her  bent  head,  "  is  a  long  time."* 

"It  depends  on  circumstances,"  returned  Mr,  Dom- 
bey; "at  all  events,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  son  is  six  ^ears 
ola,  and  there  is  no  doubt.  I  fear,  that  in  his  studies  he 
is  behind  many  children  of  his  age — or  his  youth,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  quickly  answering  what  he  mistrusted 
was  a  shrewd  twinkle  of  the  frosty  eye.  "h\s^outti.SR% 
more  appropriate  expression.     Now,  M.TB.  Vi-pcWu,  vtv- 


14S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

stead  of  being  behind  his  peers,  my  son  ought  to  be  be- 
fore them;  far  before  tnem.  There  is  an  eminence 
ready  for  him  to  mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of 
chance  or  doubt  in  the  course  before  my  son.  His  way 
in  life  was  clear  and  prepared,  and  marked  out,  before 
he  existed.  The  education  of  such  a  young  gentleman 
must  not  be  delayed.  It  must  not  be  left  imperfect.  It 
must  be  very  steadily  and  seriouslv  undertaken,  Mrs. 
Pipchin." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  can  say  nothing  to 
the  contrary." 

"I  was  quite  sure,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  returned  Mr,  Dom- 
bey,  approvingly,  "that  a  person  of  your  good  sense 
could  not,  and  would  not." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense — and  worse — talked 
about  j^oung  people  not  being  pressed  too  hard  at  first, 
and  being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  sir,"  said 
Mrs,  Pipchin,  impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose. 
"It  never  was  thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no 
business  to  be  thought  of  now.  My  opinion  is  'keep 
'em  at  it,'" 

"  My  good  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  have 
not  acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly;  and  I  beg 
you  to  believe,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  I  am  more  than  satis- 
fied with  your  excellent  system  of  management,  and 
shall  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  commanding  it  when- 
ever my  poor  commendation  " — Mr.  Dombey's  loftiness 
when  he  affected  to  disparage  his  own  importance, 
passed  all  bounds — ' '  can  be  of  any  service.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  Doctor  Blimber'a,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"My  neighbor,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "I  believe  the 
doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment.  I've  heard  that 
it's  very  strictly  conducted,  and  that  there's  nothing  but 
learning  going  on  from  morning  to  night." 

"  Ana  it's  very  expensive,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
catching  at  the  fact,  as  if  in  omitting  that,  she  had 
omitted  one  of  its  leading  merits, 

"I  have  had  some  communication  with  the  doctor, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  hitching  his  chair 
anxiously  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire,  "and  he  does  not 
consider  Paul  at  all  too  young  for  his  purpose.  He 
mentioned  several  instances  of  boys  in  Qreek  at  about 
the  same  age.     If  I  have  any  little  uneasiness  in  my 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  140 

own  mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of  this  change, 
it  is  not  on  that  head.  Mj  son  not  having  known  a 
mother  has  gradually  concentrated  much — too  much — 
of  his  childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their 
separation — "    Mr,  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

"  Hoity-toity  1"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out 
her  blagk  bombazeen  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the 
ogress  within  her.  "If  she  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Dombey, 
8ne  must  be  taught  to  limip  it."  The  good  lady  apolo- 
jjised  immediately  afterwards  for  using  so  common  a 
fig:ure  of  speech,  but  said  (and  truly)  that  that  was  the 
way  she  reasoned  with  'em, 

Mr.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done 
bridling  and  shaking  her  head,  and  m>wning  down  a 
legion  of  Bitherstones  and  Pankeys;  and  then  said 
quietly,  but  correctively,  "  He,  my  good  madam,  he." 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  would  have  applied  very  much 
the  same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  of 
Paul,  too;  but  as  the  hard  grey  eye  was  sharp  enough 
to  see  that  the  recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  ad- 
mit its  efficacy  in  the  case  of  the  daughter,  was  not  a 
sovereign  remedy  for  the  son,  she  argued  the  point;  and 
contended  that  change,  and  new  society,  and  the  dif- 
ferent form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Doctor  Blimber's, 
and  the  studies  he  would  have  to  master,  would  very 
soon  prove  sufficient  alienations.  As  this  chimed  in 
with  Mr.  Dombey's  own  hope  and  belief,  it  gave  that 
gentleman  a  still  higher  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  un- 
derstanding; and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin,  at  the  same  time,  be- 
wailed the  loss  of  her  dear  httle  friend  {which  was  not 
an  overwhelming  shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long  ex- 
pected it,  and  had  not  looked,  in  the  beginning  for  his 
remaining  with  her  longer  than  three  months),  he 
formed  an  equally  good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  dis- 
interestedness. It  was  plam  that  he  had  given  the  sub- 
ject anxious  consideration,  for  he  had  formed  a  plan, 
which  he  announced  to  tlie  ogress,  of  sending  Paul  to 
the  doctor's  as  a  weekly  border  for  the  first  half  year, 
during  which  time  Florence  would  remain  at  the  castle, 
that  Bhe  might  receive  her  brother  there,  on  Saturdays, 
This  would  wean  him  by  degrees,  Mr.  Dombey  said: 
probably  with  a  recollection  of  his  not  having  been 
weaned  by  degrees  on  a  former  occasion. 

Mr.  Dombey  finished  the  interview  by  ex^teswa^Vsa 


150  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hope  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  would  still  remain  in  office  as 
general  superintendent  and  overseer  of  his  son,  pendioK 
his  studies  at  Brighton;  and  having  kissed  Paul,  auu 
shaken  hands  with  Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Bitlier- 
stone  in  his  collar  of  state,  and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry 
by  patting  her  on  the  head  (in  which  region  she  was 
uncommonly  tender,  on  account  of  a  habit  Mrs^  Pipchin 
had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles,  like  a  cask),  he 
withdrew  to  hia  hotel  and  dinner:  resolved  that  Paul, 
now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  well,  should  begin 
a  vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify  him 
for  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  shine;  and  that  Doc- 
tor BUmber  should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in-  hand  by 
Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a 
pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the 
cliarge  of  ten  young  gentlemen,  but  he  had,  always 
ready,  a  supply  of  learnmg  for  a  hundred,  on  the  lowest 
estimate;  and  it  was  at  once  the  business  and  delight 
of  his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  with  it. 

In  fact.  Doctor  Blimber's  estabhshment  was  a  great 
hot-house,  in  which  there  was  a  forcing  apparatus  in- 
cessantly at  work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time. 
Mental  green-peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  in- 
tellectual asparagus  all  the  year  round.  Mathematical 
gooseberries  {very  sour  ones  too)  were  common  at  un- 
timely seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of  bushes,  under 
Doctor  Blimber's  cultivation.  Every  description  of 
Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the  driest  twigs 
of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumst-ances.  Nature  was 
of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a  young  gen- 
tleman was  intended  to  bear.  Doctor  Blimber  made  nim 
bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  sys- 
tem of  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvan- 
tages. There  was  not  the  right  taste  about  the  premature 
productions,  and  they  didn't  keep  well.  Moreover,  one 
young  gentleman,  with  a  swollen  nose  and  an  exces- 
sively large  head  (the  oldest  of  the  ten  who  had  "gone 
through"  evervthing),  suddenly  left  off  blowing  one 
day.  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a  mere  stalk. 
And  people  did  say  that  the  doctor  had  rather  overdone 
it  with  younc  Toots,  and  tliat  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  161 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate:  possessed  of  the 
gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds;  sticking 
ornamental  pins  into  hJs  shirt,  and  keeping  a  ring  in 
his  waistceat-ijocket  to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stemth, 
when  the  pupils  went  out  walking;  constantly  falling 
in  love  by  sight  with  nursery-maids,  who  had  no  idea 
of  his  existence;  and  looking  at  the  gas-lighted  world 
over  the  little  iron  bars  in  the  left-hand  corner  window 
of  the  front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bedtime,  like  a 
greatly  overgrown  cherub  who  had  set  up  aloft  much 
too  long. 

The  doctor  was  a  portly  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  black, 
with  strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  below  them. 
He  had  a  bald  head,  highly  polished ;  a  deep  voice;  and 
a  chin  so  very  double  that  it  was  a  wonder  now  he  ever 
managed  to  shave  into  the  creases.  He  had  likewise  a 
pair  of  little  eyes  that  were  always  half  shut  up,  and  a 
mouth  that  was  always  half  expanded  into  a  grin,  as  if 
he  had,  that  moment,  posed  a  ooy,  and  were  waiting  to 
convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Insomuch,  that  when 
the  doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
and  with  his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a  scarcely, 
perceptible  wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  ob- 
servation to  a  nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a  sentiment 
from  the  sphynx,  and  settled  his  business. 

The  doctor's  was  a  mighty  fine  house,  fronting  the 
sea.  Not  a  joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the 
contrary.  Sad-colored  curtains,  whose  proportions  were 
spare  and  lean,  hid  themselves  despondently  behind  the 
windows.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in  rows, 
like  figures  in  a  sum:  fires  were  so  rarely  lighted  in  the 
rooms  of  ceremony  that  they  felt  like  wells,  and  a  vis- 
itor represented  the  bucket;  the  dining-room  seemed 
the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any  eating  or  drinking 
was  likely  to  occur;  tliere  was  no  sound  through  all  the 
house  but  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in  the  hall,  which 
made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets;  and  sometimes 
a  dull  crying  of  young  gentlemen  at  their  lessons,  like 
the  murmurings  of  an  assembl^e  of  melancholy 
pigeons. 

Miss  BHmber,  too,  although  a  slim  and  graceful  maid, 
did  no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There 
was  no  light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  ?>\\«j  V."b^\ 
her  hair  short  and  crisp,  and  wore  8pectac\es.    Stvft  "wsa 


153  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

dry  and  sandy  with  working  in  the  graves  of  deceased 
laag:uages.  None  of  your  .live  languages  for  Miss 
Blimber.  They  must  be  dead — stone  dead — and  then 
Miss  Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a  Ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mamma,  was  not  learned  herself, 
but  she  pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She 
said  at  evening  parties  that,  if  she  could  have  known 
Cicero,  she  thought  she  could  have  died  contented.  It 
was  the  steady  joy  of  her  life  to  see  the  doctor's  young 
gentlemen  go  out  walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gen- 
tlemen, in  the  largest  possible  shirt  collars  and  the 
stiffest  possible  cravats.     It  was  so  classical,  she  said. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  Doctor  Blimber's  assistant, 
he  was  a  kind  of  human  barrel-organ,  with  a  little  list 
of  tunes  at  which  he  was  continually  working,  over 
and  over  again,  without  any  variation.  He  might  have 
been  fitted  up  with  a  change  of  barrels,  perhaps,  in 
early  life,  if  his  destiny  had  been  favorable;  but  it  had 
not  been;  and  he  had  onlj  one,  with  which,  in  a  monot- 
onous round,  it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder  the 
young  ideas  of  Doctor  Blimber's  young  gentlemen. 
The  young  gentlemen  were  prematurely  full  of  cark- 
ing  anxieties.  They  knew  no  rest  from  the  pursuit  of 
stony-hearted  verbs,  savage  noun-substantives,  inflex- 
ible syntactic  passages,  and  ghosts  of  exercises  that 
appeared  to  them  in  their  dreams.  Under  the  forcing 
system,  a  young  gentleman  usually  took  leave  of  his 
spirits  in  three  weeks.  He  had  all  the  cares  of  the 
world  on  his  head  in  three  months.  He  conceived 
bitter  sentiments  against  his  parents  or  guardians  in 
four;  he  was  an  old  misanthrope,  in  five;  envied  Curtius 
that  blessed  refuge  in  the  earth,  in  six:  and  at  the  end 
of  the  first  twelvemonth  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion, 
from  which  he  never  afterwards  departed,  that  all  the 
fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of  the  sages,  were  a 
mere  collection  of  words  and  grammar,  and  had  no 
other  meaning  in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on,  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  doctor's 
hot-house,  all  the  time;  and  the  doctor's  glory  and  repu- 
tation were  great,  when  he  took  his  wintry  growth 
home  to  his  relations  and  friends. 

Upon  the  doctor's  door-steps  one  day,  Paul  stood  with 
a  fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his 
father's.    His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Flor- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  153 

ence.     How  tight  the  tiny  pressure  of  that  one;  and 
how  loose  and  cold  the  other! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  Tictim,  with  her 
sable  plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a  bird  of  ill- 
omen.  She  was  out  of  breath — for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of 
great  thoughts,  had  walked  fast^and  she  croaked 
hoarsely  as  she  waited  for  the  opening  of    the    door. 

"Now,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  exultinely,  "this  ie 
the  way  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money. 
You  are  atmoBt  a  man  already." 
•    "  Almost,"  returned  the  child. 

Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly 
and  quaint,  yet  touching  look,  with  which  he  accom- 
panied the  reply. 

It  brought  a  vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into 
Mr.  Dombey's  face;  but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was 
quickly  gone. 

"Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I  believe?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes;  and  as  they  passed  in,  looked  at 
Paul  as  if  he  were  a  little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a 
trap.  He  was  a  weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first 
faint  streaks  or  early  dawn  of  a  grin  on  his  countenance. 
It  was  mere  imbecility;  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  it  into  her 
head  that  it  was  impudence,  and  made  a  snap  at  him 
directly. 

"  How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman's  back?" 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin.     "And  what  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"  I  ain"t  a  laughing  at  nobody,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
take  you  for  nothing,  ma'am,"  returned  the  young  man, 
in  consternation. 

"  A  pack  of  idle  dogs!"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "only  fit 
to  be  turnspits.  Go  and  tfell  your  master  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's here,  or  it'll  be  worse  for  youl" 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to 
dischai^  himself  of  this  commission:  and  soon  came 
back  to  invite  them  to  the  doctor's  study. 

"You're  laughing  agaiUr  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
when  it  came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass 
him  in.the  hall. 

"I  ain't,"  returned  the  young  man,  grievously  op- 
pressed.    "  I  never  see  such  a  thing  as  this!" 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipcnin?"  Baid14T.Uoisv- 
hey,  looking  round,     "Softlyl    Pray\" 


154  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  deference,  merely  muttered  at 
the  young  man  as  she  passed  on,  and  said,  "Oh!  he 
was  a  precious  fellow  "— leaTing  the  young  man,  who 
was  all  meekness  and  incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears 
by  the  incident.  But  Mrs.  Pipcliin  had  a  way  of  falling 
foul  of  all  meek  people;  and  her  friends  said  who  could 
wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian  mines! 

The  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  study,  ■with  a 
globe  at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him,  Homer  over 
the  door,  and  Minerva  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "And  how 
do  you  do,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  how  is 
iny  little  friend? "  Grave  as  an  ot^an  was  the  doctor's 
speech;  and  when  he  ceased,  the  threat  clock  in  the  hall 
seemed  (to  Paul  at  least)  to  take  nim  up,  and  to  ^  on 
saying,  "  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  now,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend,"  over  and  over  and  over  again. 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  small  to  be  seen 
a,t  all  from  where  the  doctor  sat,  over  the  books  on  his 
table,  the  doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  a 
view  of  him  round  the  legs;  which  Mr.  Dombey  per- 
ceiving, relieved  the  doctor  from  his  embarrassment 
by  taking  Paul  up  in  his  arms,  and  sitting  him  on 
another  little  table,  over  against  the  doctor,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room, 

"  Ha! "  said  the  doctor,  leaning  back-  in  his  chair  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast.  "  Now  I  see  my  little  friend. 
How  do  you  do,  my  little  friend  ?  " 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  this  alter- 
ation in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat 
"how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie, 
friend! " 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Paul,  answer- 
ing the  clock  quite  as  much  the  doctor, 

"Ha!"  said  Dr.  Blimber,  "shall  we  make  a  man  of 
him?" 

"  Do  you  hear,  Paul?  "  added  Mr.  Dombey;  Paul  being 
silent. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  man  of  him?  "  repeated  the  doctor. 

"  I  had  rather  be  a  child,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Indeed! "  said  the  doctor.     "Why?" 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a 
curious  expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  face, 
and  beating  one  hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had 
the  rising  tears  beneath  it,  and  crushed  them.    But  his 


DOMBEY  A*ND  SON.  .  155 

other  hand  strayed  a  little  wa}^  the  while,  a  little  far- 
ther— farther  from  him  yet— until  it  li^rhted  on  the  neck 
of  Florence.  "  This  is  why,"  itseeraedto  say,  and  then 
the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and  gone;  the  working 
lip  was  loosened;  and  the  tears  came  streaming  forth. 

"  Mrs,  Pipchin,"  said  his  father,  in  a  quehilous  man- 
ner, "  I  am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this. 

"  Come  away  from  nim,  iio.  Miss  Dorabey,"  quoth  the 
matron. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  doctor,  blandly  nodding  his 
head,  to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  hack.  "  Ne-ver  mind;  we 
shall  substitute  new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  shortly.  You  would  still  wish  my  little 
friend  to  acquire — " 

"  Everythmg,  if  you  please,  doctor,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  firmly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  who,  with  his  half-shut  eyes, 
and  his  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the 
sort  of  interest  that  might  attach  to  some  choic*  little 
animal  he  was  going  to  stuff.  "  Yes,  exactly!  Ha! 
We  shall  impart  a  great  variety  of  information  to  our 
little  friend,  and  bring  him  quickly  forward,  I  dare  s^', 
I  dare  say.  Quite  a  vii^in  soil,  I  believe  you  said,  Itfr. 
Dombey?" 

"Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and 
from  this  lady,"  replied  Mr,  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  who  mstantly  communicated  a  rigidity  to  her 
whole  muscular  system,  and  snorted  defiance  before- 
hand, in  case  the  iioctor  should  disparage  her;  "except 
so  far,  Paul  has,  as  yet,  applied  himselfto  no  studies  at 
all." 

Doctor  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance 
of  such  insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and 
said  he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satis- 
factory, he  observed,  rubbing  his  hands,  to  begin  at  the 
foundation.  And  again  he  leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he 
would  have  liked  to  tackle  him  with  the  Greek  alphabet 
on  the  spot, 

"That  circumstance,  indeed.  Doctor  Blimber,"'  pur- 
sued Mr.  Dombey  glancing  at  his  little  son,  "and  the 
interview  I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding 
with  you,  renders  any  further  explanation,  and  conse- 
quently, any  further  intrusion  on  your  valvm,bVe  ^\ma, 
80  unnecessary,  that — " 


156  .  DOMBETP-  AKP  SON. 

"Now,  Mi6S  Dombey!"  said  the  acid  Pipchin. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  doctor,  "  one  moment.  Allow 
me  to  present  Mrs.  Blimber  and  my  daughter,  ■who  will 
be  associated  with  the  domestic  life  of  our  young  Pil- 

frim  to  Parnassus.  Mrs.  Blimber,"  for  the  lady,  who 
ad  peiiiapfe  been  in  waiting,  opportunely  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  her  daughter,  that  fair  sexton  in  spectacles, 
"  Mr.  Dombey.  My  daughter  Cornelia,  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey,  my  love,"  pursued  the  doctor,  turning  to 
his  wife,  "  is  so  confiding  as  to — do  you  see  our  little 
friend?" 

Mrs.  Blimber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  of  which 
Mr.  Dombey  was  the  object^  apparently  did  not,  for  she 
was  backing  against  the  httle  friend,  and  very  much 
endangering  his  position  on  the  table.  But,  on  this 
hint,  she  turned  to  admire  his  classical  and  intellectual 
lineaments,  and  turning  again  to  Mr.  Dombey,  said, 
with  a  sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son. 

"Like  a  bee,  sir,"  said  Mrs. "Blimber,  with  uplifted 
eyes,  "  about  to  plunge  into  a  garden  of  the  choicest 
flowers,  and  sip  the  sweets  for  tlie  first  time.  Virgil, 
Horace,  Ovid,  Terence,  Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a  world 
of  honey  have  we  here.  It  may  appear  remarkable, 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  one  who  is  a  wife — the  wife  of  such  a 
husband — 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Doctor  Blimber.  "  Fie  for 
shame. " 

"Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a  wife," 
said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 

"Mr.  Dombey  answered  "  Not  at  all:  "  applying  those 
words,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partiality,  and  not  to 
the  forgiveness. 

" — And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a 
mother  also,"  resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  And  such  a  mother,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing 
with  some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to 
Cornelia. 

"But  really,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  "I  think  if  I 
could  have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and 
talked  with  him  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum  (beau-ti- 
ful  Tusculum!),  I  could  have  died  contented." 

A  learned  enthusiasm  is  so  very  contagious  that  Mr. 
Dombey  half  believed  this  was  exactly  nis  case;  and 
even    Mrs.   Pipchin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen, 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  157 

of  an  accommodating  disposition  generally,  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  little  Bound  between  a  groan  and  a  sigh,  as  if 
she  would  have  said  that  nobody  out  Cicero  could  have 

Proved  a  lasting  consolation  under  that  failure  of  the 
eruvian  mines,  but  that  he  indeed  would  have  been  a 
veiy  Davy-lamp  of  refuge, 

Oomelia  looEed  at  Mr.  Dombey  through  her  spec- 
tacles as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a  few  quota- 
tions with  him  from  the  authority  in  question.  But 
this  design,  if  she  entertained  it,  was  frustrated  by  a 
knock  at  the  room-door. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  the  doctor.  "Oh!  Come  in. 
Toots;  come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  sir."  Toots  bowed. 
"Quite  a  coincidence!"  said  Doctor  Blimber.  "Here 
we  have  the  beginning  and  the  end.  Alpha  and  Omega. 
Our  head  boy,  Mr.  Dombey." 

The  doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head  and 
shoulders  boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than 
any  of  the  rest.  He  blushed  very  much  at  Ending  him- 
self among-  strangers,  and  chuckled  aloud. 

"An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,"  said  the 
doctor;  "Mr.  Dorabey's  sofi." 

Young  Toots  blushed  again;  and  finding,  from  a 
solemn  silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  was  expected 
to  say  something,  said  to  Paul,  "How  are  you?  in  a 
voice  so  deep,  and  a  manner  so  sheepish,  that  if  a  lamh 
had  roared  it  couldn't  have  been  more  surprising. 

"Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please.  Toots,  said  the  doc- 
tor, "to  prepare  a  few  introductory  volumes  for  Mr. 
Dombey's  son,  and  to  allot  him  a  convenient  seat  for 
study.  My  dear,  I  believe  Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen 
the  dormitories." 

"If  Mr.  Domlaey  will  walk  up-stairs,"  said  Mrs. 
Blimber,  "  I  shall  he  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the 
dominions  of  the  drowsy  god." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  lady  of  great 
suavity,  and  a  wiry  figure,  and  who  wore  a  cap  com- 
posed of  sky-blue  materials,  proceeded  up-stairs  with 
Mr.  Dombey  and  Cornelia;  Mrs.  Pipchin  following,  and 
looking  out  sharp  for  her  enemy  the  footman. 

While  they  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table  hold- 
ing Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from 
the  doctor  round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  AocXat, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hand  m\i\a\>teaa^.  aa 


158  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

uBual,  held  a  book  from  him  at  arm's  len^h,  and  read. 
There  was.  something  very  awful  in  this  manner  of 
reading.  It  w&s  such  a-  determined,  unimpaesioned, 
inflexible,  cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  work.  It  left 
the  doctor's  countenance  exposed  to  view;  and  when 
the  doctor  smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit 
his  brows,  or  shook  his  head  and  made  wry  faces  at 
him,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Don't  tell  me,  eir.  I  know 
better,"  it  was  terrific. 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door  os- 
tentatiously examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and 
counting  his  half-crowns.  But  that  didn't  last  long;  for 
Dr.  Blimber,  happening  to  change  the  position  of  his 
tight  plump  legs,  as  if  ne  were  going  to  get  up,  Toots 
swiftly  vanished,  and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  were  soon  hearil 
coming  down-stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way;  and 
presently  they  re-entered  the  doctor  s  study. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  doctor,  laying  down 
his  book,  "that  the  arrangements  meet  your  approval." 

"They  are  excellent,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  Very  fair,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a  low  voice; 
never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

"Mrs.  Pipchin,'  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round, 
"will,  with  your  permission.  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
visit  Paul  now  and  then," 

"  Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,"  observed  the  doc- 
tor. 

"  Always  happy  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "1  have  given  all  the 
trouble  I  need,  and  may  take  my  leave.  Paul,  my  child." 
he  went  close  to  liim,  as  he  sat  upon  the  table,  "Good 
by." 

"Good  by,  papa." 

The  limp  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey 
took  in  his  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  the  wist- 
ful face.  But  he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  expression. 
It  was  not  addressed  to  him.  No,  no.  To  Florence — all 
to  Florence. 

If  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  insolence  of  wealth  had  ever 
made  an  enemy,  hard  to  appeaae  and  cruelly  vindictive 
in  Ins  hate,  even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received 
the  pang  that  wrung  bis  proud  heart  then  as  compen- 
sation for  bis  injury. 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  KON.*  15!) 

He  bent  down  over  hia  boy,  and  kissed  bim.  If  his 
sight  were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for 
a  moment  blurred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct  to 
him,  his  mental  vision  may  have  been,  for  that  short 
time,  the  clearer  perhaps. 

"  I  shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  you  know." 

"Yes,  papa,"  returned  Paul:  looking  at  his  sister. 
•'  On  Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"And  you'll  try  and  leam  a  great  deal  here,  and  be  a 
clever  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey;  "won't  you?" 

"  ril  try,"  returned  the  child  wearily. 

"  And  you'll  soon  be  grown  up  nowl "  said  Mr'.  Dom- 
bey, 

"Oh!  very  soon!"  replied  the  child.  Once  more  the 
old,  old  look,  passed  rapidly  across  his  features  like  a 
strange  light.  It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extinguished 
iteelf  m  her  black  dress.  That  excellent  ogress  stepjied 
forward  to  take  leave  and  to  bear  off  Florence,  which 
she  had  long  been  thirsting  to  do.  The  move  on  her 
part  roused  Mr.  Dombey,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Paul.  After  patting  bim  on  the  head,  and  pressing  his 
small  hand  again,  he  took  leave  of  Doctor  Biimber,  Mrs, 
Blimber,  antlMiss  Biimber,  with  bis  usual  polite  frigid- 
ity, and  walked  out  of  the  study. 

Despite  his  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of 
stirring.  Doctor  Biimber,  Mrs.  Bhmber,  and  Miss  Biim- 
ber all  pressed  forward  to  attend  him  to  the  hall;  and 
thus  Mrs.  Pipchin  got  into  a  state  of  entanglement  with 
Miss  Biimber  and  the  doctor,  and  was  crowded  out  of 
the  study  before  she  could  clutch  Florence.  To  which 
happy  accident  Paul  stood  afterwards  indebted  for  the 
dear  remembrance  that  Florence  ran  back  to  throw 
her  arms  round  hia  neck,  and  that  hers  was  the  last 
face  in  the  doorway,  turned  towards  him  with  a  smile 
of  encouragement,  the  brighter  for  the  tears  through 
which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it 
was  gone;  and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer 
and  Minerva,  swimming  round  the  room.  But  they 
stopped,  all  of  a  sudden;  and  then  he  heard  the  loud 
clock  in  the  hall  still  gravely  inquiring,  "  how,  is.  my, 
lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,"  9A  it  uaA,4o"Qft 
before. 


100  .  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  sat,,  with  folded  hands,  upon  bis  pedestal,  silently 
listening.  Buthemiebt  have  answered  '*wearv,  weary! 
very  lonely,  very  sad!  "  And  there,  with  an  acning  void 
in  his  young  heart,  and  all  outside  so  cold,  and  bare, 
and  strange,  Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  linfur* 
nished,  and  the  upholsterer  was  never  coming. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

PAUL'S  EDUCATION. 

Afteh  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  which  appeared  an 
immense  time  to  little  Paul  Dombey  on  the  table.  Doc- 
tor Blimber  came  back.  The  doctor's'walk  was  stately, 
and  calculated  to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with 
solemn  feelings.  It  was  a  sort  of  march;  but  when  the 
doctor  put  out  his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned  upon 
his  axis,  with  a  semi-circular  sweep  towards  the  left; 
and  when  he  put  out  his  left  foot,  he  turned  in  the  same 
manner  towards  the  right.  So  that  he  seemed,  at  every 
stride  he  took,  to  look  about  him  as  though  he  were 
saying,  "Can  anybody  have  the  goodness  to  indicate 
any  subject,  In  any  direction,  on  which  I  am  imin- 
formed?    I  rather  think  not." 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  the 
doctor's  company;  and  the  doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil 
off  the  table,  delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber.     ■ 

"  Cornelia,"  said  the  docter,  "  Dombev  will  be  your 
charge  at  first.     Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  Bring  him  on." 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  doc- 
tor's hands;  and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were 
surveying  him,  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"How  old  are  you,  Dombey?    said  Miss  Blimber. 

"Six,"  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a 
glance  at  the  young  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow 
long  like  Florence's,  and  why  she  was  like  a  boy. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar, 
Dombey?"  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"None  of  it,"  answered  Paul,     Feeling  that  the  an- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  101 

swer  was  a  sboct:  to  Miss  Blimber's  sensibility,  be 
looked  up  at  tbe  three  faces  that  were  looking  down  at 
him,  and  said:        , 

"  t  haven't  been  well.  I  have  been  a  weak  child,  I 
couldn't  leam  a  Latin  Grammar  when  I  was  out,  every 
day,  with  old  Glubb.  I  wish  you'd  tell  old  Glubb  to 
come  and  see  me,  if  you  please.' 

"What  a  dreadfully  low  nameT'said  Mrs.  Blimber, 
"  Unclassical  to  a  decree!    Who  is  the  monster,  child?  " 

"  What  monster?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Glubb,"  said  Mrs.  Bnmber,  with  a  great  disrelish. 

"  He's  no  more  a  monster  than  you  are,"  returned 
Paul. 

'■  What!"  cried  the  doctor,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "  Aye, 
aye,  ave?    Aha!    What's  that?" 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened;  but  still  he  made  a 
stand  for  the  absent  GiubS,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

"He's  a  very  nice  old  man,  ma'am,"  he  ^id.  "He 
used  to  draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep 
sea,  and  the  fish  that  are  in  it,  and  tbe  great  monsters 
that  come  fmd  He  on  rocks  in  the  sun,  and  dive  into  the 
water  again  when  they're  startled,  blowing  and  splash- 
ing so  that  they  can  be  heard  for  miles.  There  are 
some  creatures,"  said  Paul,  warming  with  his  subject, 
"  I  don't  know  how  mtiny  yards  long,  and  I  forget  tneir 
names,  but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to  be  in  dis- 
tress; and  when  a  man  goes  near  tnem,  out  of  compas- 
sion, they  open  their  great  jaws,  and  attack  him.  But 
all  he  has  got  to  do,  said  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this 
information  to  the  very  doctor  himself,  "  is  to  keep  on 
turning  as  he  runs  away,  and  then,  as  thev  turn  slowly, 
because  they  are  so  long,  and  can't  bend,  he's  sure  to 
beat  them.  And  though  old  Glubb  don't  know  why  the 
sea  should  make  me  think  of  my  mama  that's  dead,  or 
what  it  is  that  it  is  always  saying— always  saying!  he 
knows  a  great  deal  about  it.  And  I  wish,"  the  child 
concluded,  with  a  sudden  falling  of  bis  countenance, 
and  failing  in  his  animation,  as  he  looked  like  one  for- 
lorn, upon  the  three  strange  faces,  "that  you'd  let  old 
Glubb  come  here  to  see  me,  for  I  know  him  very  well, 
and  he  knows  me." 

"Ha!"  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head;  "this  is 
bad,  but  study  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Blimber  opined,  with  something  like  a  shiver, 


162  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  he  was  an  unaccountable  child;  and,  allowing  for 
the  difference  of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as 
Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  used  to  do. 

"  Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, "  and  familiarise  hjm  with  his  new  sphere.  Go 
with  that  young  lady,  Dombey," 

Dombey  obeyed;  giving  bis  hand  to  the  abstruse  Cor- 
nelia, and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curiosity, 
as  they  went  away  together.  For  her  spectacles,  by 
reason  of  the  glistening  of  the  glasses,  made  her  so 
mysterious  that  he  didn  t  know  where  she  was  looking 
and  was  not  indeed  quite  sure  that  she  had  any  eyes  at 
all  behind  them. 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school-room,  which  was 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached 
through  two  baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  muffled 
the  young  gentlemen's  voices.  Here,  there  were  eight 
young  gentlemen  in  vaiious  stages  of  mental  prostra- 
tion, an  very  hard  at  work,  and  very  grave  indeed. 
Toots,  as  an  old  hand,  had  a  desk  to  himself  in  one  cor- 
ner: and  a  magnificent  man,  of  immense  age,  he  looked, 
in  Paul's  young'  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B,A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  had 
his  Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to 
four  young  gentlemen.  Of  the  remaining  four,  two, 
who  grasped  their  foreheads  convulsively,  were  en- 
gageain  solving  mathematical  problems;  one  with  his 
face  like  a  dirty  window,  from  much  crying,  was  en- 
deavoring to  flounder  through  a  hopeless  number  of 
lines  before  dinner;  and  one  sat  lookmg  at  his  task  in 
stony  stupefaction  and  despair — which  it  seemed  had 
been  his  condition  ever  since  breakfast  time. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  boy  did  not  create  the  sensa- 
tion that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B,A. 
(who  was  in  the  habit  of  shaving  his  head  for  coolness, 
and  had  nothing  but  little  bristles  on  it),  gave  him  a 
bony  hand,  and  told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him — which 
Paul  would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  told  him,  if  be 
could  have  done  so  with  the  least  sincerity.  Then  Paul, 
instructed  by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with  the  four 
young  gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder's  desk;  then  with  the 
two  young  gentlemen  at  Work  on  the  problems,  who 
were  very  feverish:  then  with  the  young  gentleman  at 
work  against  time,  who  was  very  inky;  and  lastly  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  163 

the  young  gentleman  in  a  state  of  stupefaction,  who 
was  flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  introduced  to  Toots,  that 
pupil  merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom 
was,  and  pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged. It  was  not  a  severe  one;  for  on  account  of  his 
having  "gone  through"  so  much  (in  more  senses  than 
one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as  before  hinted,  left  oif 
blowing  in  his  prime.  Toots  now  had  license  to  pursue 
his  own  course  of  study;  which  was  chiefly  to  write 
long  letters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction,  ad- 
dressed'"P.  Toots,  Esquire,  Brighton,  Sussex,"  and  to 
preserve  them  in  his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up-stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house;  which  was  rather  a  slow  jour- 
ney, on  account  of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet 
on  every  stair  before  he  mounted  another.  But  they 
reached  their  journey's  end  at  last;  and  there,  in  a  front 
room,  looking  over  the  wild  sea,  Cornelia  showed  him  a 
nice  little  bea  with  white  hangings,  close  to  the  window, 
on  which  there  was  already  beautifully  written  on  a 
card  in  round  text — down  strokes  very  thick,  and  up 
strokes  verv  fine — Dombey;  while  two  other  little  betl- 
steads  in  the  same  room  were  announced,  through  like 
means,  as  respectively  appertaining  unto  Brioos  and 

TOZER. 

Just  as  they  got  down-stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul 
saw  the  weak-eyed  young  man  who  bad  given  that 
mortal  offence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  seize  a  very 
large  drumstick,  and  fly  at  a  gong  that  was  hanging 
up,  as  if  he  had  gone  mad,  or  wanted  vengeance.  In- 
stead of  receiving  warning,  however,  or  being  instantly 
taken  into  custody,  the  young  man  left  off  uncheckea, 
after  having  made  a  dreadful  noise.  Tlien  Cornelia 
Blimber  said  to  Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  into 
the  school-room  among  his  "friends." 

So  Dombey,  deferentially  passing  the  great  clock, 
which  was  still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  he 
found  himself,  opened  the  school-room  door  a  very  little 
way,  and  strayed  in  like  a  lost  boy:  shutting  it  after 
him  with  some  difficulty.  His  friends  were  all  dispersed 
about  the  room  except  the  stony  friend,  w\io  Yemavoai 
immovable.    Mr.  Feeder  was  stretching  \v\tQae\i  'vn  \iSa 


164  -DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

grey  gown,  as  if,  regardless  of  expense,  he  were  re- 
solved to  pull  the  sleeves  oif. 

"Heigh  ho  huinl"  cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  himself 
like  a  cart-horse.     "Oh  dearme,  dear  me!    Ya-a-a-ah!" 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder's  yawning:  it 
was  done  on  such  a  great  scale,  and  he  was  so  terribly 
in  earnest.  All  the  boys  too  {Toots  excepted)  seemed 
knocked  up,  and  were  getting  ready  for*dinner — some 
newly  tying  their  neckcloths,  which  were  very  stiff  in- 
deed; and  others  washing  their  hands  or  brushing  their 
hair,  in  an  adjoining  ante-chamber — as  if  they  didn't 
think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots,  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had 
therefore  nothing  to  do,  and  haa  leisure  to  bestow  upon 
Paul,  said,  with  heavy  good-nature: 

"Sit  down,  Dombey.'" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

His  endeavoring  to  hoist  himself  on  to  a  very  high 
window-seat,  and  his  slipping  down  again,  appeared  to 
prepare  Toots's  mind  for  the  reception  of  a  discovery, 

"You're  a  very  small  chap,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am  small,"  returned  Paul.  "Thank  you, 
sir." 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  it 
kindly  too. 

"  Who's  your  tailor? "  inquired  Toots,  after  looking  at 
him  for  some  moments. 

"  It's  a  woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,"  said 
Paul.     "My  sister's  dressmaker." 

"My  tailor's  Burgess  &  Co.,"  said  Toots.  "Pash'n- 
able;  out  very  dear. 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  bis  head,  as  if  he 
would  have  said  it  was  easy  to  see  that;  and  indeed  he 
thought  se. 

"Your  father's  regularly  rich,  ain't  he?"  inquired 
Mr.  Toots. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul.     "He's  Dombey  &  Son." 

"And  which?"  demanded  Toots. 

"And  Son,  sir,"  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  fix  the  firm  in  his  mind;  but  not  quite  succeeding, 
said  he  would  get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again  to- 
morrow morning,  as  it  was  rather  important.  And  in- 
deed he  purposed  nothing  less  than  writing  himself  a 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  I(i5 

private  and  confidential  letter  from  Dombey  and  Sun 
immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the 
stony  boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale; 
and  spoke  low;  and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their 
spirits  that,  in  comparison  with  the  general  tone  of  that 
company.  Master  Bitherstone  was  a  perfect  Miller,  or 
complete  Jest  Book,  And  yet  he  had  a  sense  of  injury 
upon  him  too,  had  Bitherstone. 

"You  sleep  in  my  room,  don't  you?"  asked  a  solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt  collar  curled  up  the  lobes 
of  his  ears. 

"Master  Briggs?"  inquired  Paul. 

"Tozer,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes;  and  Tozer  pointing  out  the  stony 
pupil,  said  that  was  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  felt  cer- 
tain that  it  must  be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  he 
didn't  know  why.  ' 

"  Is  yours  a  strong  constitution?"  inquired  Tozer. 

Paul  said  he  thought  not,  Tozer  replied  that  he 
thought  not  also,  judgmg  from  Paul's  loolcs,  and  that  it 
was  a  pity,  for  it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he 
were  going  to  begin  with  Cortielia;  and  on  Paul  saying 
"yes,  all  the  young  gentlemen  {Briggs  excepted)  gave 
a  low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  gong, 
which  sounding  again  with  great  fury  there  was  a  gen- 
eral move  towards  the  dining-room;  still  excepting 
Briggs  the  stony  boy,  who  remamed  where  he  was,  ana 
as  he  was;  and  on  its  way  to  whom  Paul  presently  en- 
countered a  round  of  bread,  genteelly  served  on  a  plate 
and  napkin,  and  with  a  silver  fork  lying  crosswise  on  the 
top  of  it.  Doctor  Blimher  was  already  in  his  place  in 
the  dining-room,  at  the  top  of  the  table,  with  Miss  Blim- 
ber  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  either  side  of  him.  Mr.  Feeder 
in  a  black  coat  was  at  the  bottom.  Paul's  chair  was 
next  to  Miss  Blimber;  but  it  being  found,  when  he  sat 
in  it,  that  his  eyebrows  were  not  much  above  the  level 
of  the  table-cloth,  some  books  were  broujght  in  from  the 
doctor's  study,  on  which  he  was  elevated,  and  on  which 
he  always  sat  from  that  time— carrying  them  in  and  out 
himself  on  after  occasions  like  a  little  elephant  and 
castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  doctor,  dmneT  Yie^asi. 


166  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

There  was  some  nice  eoup;  also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  ^oung  gentieman 
haa  a  massive  silver  fork,  and  a  napkin;  and  all  the  ar- 
rangements were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular. 
there  was  a  butler  in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  who 
gave  quite  a  wipey  flavor  to  the  table  beer;  he  poured  it 
out  80  superbly. 

Nobody  spoke  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  Blim- 
ber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Imss  Blimber,  who  conversed  oc- 
casionally. Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  not 
actually  engaged  with  his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his 
eye,  with  an  irresistible  attraction,  sought  the  eye  of 
Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  or  Miss  Blimber,  and 
modestly  rested  there.  Toots  appeared  to  be  the  only 
exception  to  this  rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder  on  Paul's 
side  of  the  table,  and  frequently  looked  behind  and  be- 
fore the  intervening  boys  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation 
that  included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at  the 
epoch  of  the  cheese,  when  the  doctor,  having  taken  a 
glass  of  port  wine,  and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice,  said: 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implacable 
enemies,  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze  upon 
the  doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  interest. 
One  of  the  number  who  happened  to  be  drinking,  and 
who  caught  the  doctor's  eye  glaring  at  him  through 
the  side  of  his  tumbler,  left  off  so  hastily  that  he  was 
convulsed  for  some  moments,  and  in  the  sequel  ruioed 
Doctor  Blimber's  point. 

"It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  said  the  doctor,  be- 
ginning again  slowly,  "that  the  Romans,  in  those 
gorgeous  and  profuse  entertainments  of  which  we 
read  in  the  days  of  the  Emperors,  when  luxury  had  at- 
tained a  heignt  unknown  before  or  since,  and  when 
whole  provinces  were  ravaged  to  supply  the  splendid 
means  of  one  imperial  banquet — " 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  strain- 
ing, and  waiting  in  vain  for  a  full  stop,  broke  out  vio- 
lently. 

"Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  low  reproachful 
voice,  "take  some  water." 

The  doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a  pause  until 
the  water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed; 

Coogic 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  IB? 

"And  when,  Mr.  Feeder — " 

But  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that  Johnson  must  break 
out  again,  and  who  knew  that  the  doctor  would  never 
come  to  a  period  before  the  young  gentlemen  until  he 
had  finished  all  he  meant  to  say,  couldn't  keep  his  eye 
off  Johnson;  and  thus  was  caught  in  the  fact  of  not 
looking  at  the  doctor,  who  consequently  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Feeder,  reddening, 
■'  I  beg  Your  pardon,  Doctor  Blimber." 

**Ana  when,"  aaid  the  doctor,  raising  his  voice, 
"when,  sir,  as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt^ 
incredible  as  it  may  appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our  time — 
the  brother  of  Vitellius  prepared  for  him  a  feast,  in 
which  were  served,  of  fish,  two  thousand  dishes — " 

"  Take  some  water,  Johnson — dishes,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder. 

"  Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes." 

"Or  try  a  crust  of  bread,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"And  one  dish,"  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his 
voice  still  higher  as  he  looked  all  round  the  table. 
'■  called,  from  its  enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of 
Minerva,  and  made,  among  other  costly  ingredients,  of 
the  brains  of  pheasants — " 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow!"  (from  Johnson.) 

"Woodcocks," 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow!" 

"  The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scari," 

"You'll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder.     "  You  had  better  let  it  come." 

"  And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the 
Carpathian  Sea,"  pursued  the  doctor  in  his  severest 
voice;  "  when  we  read  of  costly  entertainments  such  as 
these,  and  still  remember  that  we  have  a  Titus," 

"  What  would  be  your  mother's  feelings  if  you  died 
of  apoplexy!"  said  Mr,  Feeder. 

"A  Domitian." 

'.'  And  you're  blue,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  A  Nero,  a  Tiberius,  a  Caligula,  a  Heliogabalus,  and 
many  more,"  pursued  the  doctor;  "  it  is,  Mr.  Feeder — if 
you  are  doing  me  the  honor  to  attend—remarkable; 
VERY  remarkable,  sir — " 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst 
at  that  moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of  cough- 
ing,   that,    although    both    bis    immediate    netghbon^ 


108  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

thumped  him  on  the  back,  and  Mr.  Feeder  himself  held 
a  glass  of  water  to  his  lips,  and  the  butler  walked  him 
up  and  down  several  times  between  his  own  chair  and 
the  sideboard,  like  a  sentry,  it  was  full  five  minutes  be- 
fore he  was  moderately  composed,  and  then  there  was 
a  profound  silence. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Dr.  Blimber,  "rise  for  Qracel 
Cornelia,  lift  Dombey  down"— nothing  of  whom  but  his 
scalp  was  accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth. 
"  Johnson  will  repeat  to  me  to-morrow  morning  before 
breakfast,  without  book,  and  from  the  Greet  Testa- 
ment, the  first  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the 
Ephesians.  We  will  resume  our  studies,  Mr.  Feeder,  in 
half-an-hour." 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  withdrew^.  Mr. 
Feeder  did  likewise.  During  the  half-hour,  the  young 
gentlemen,  broken  into  pairs,  loitered  arm-in-arm  up 
and  down  a  small  piece  of  ground  behind  the  house,  or 
endeavored  to  kindle  a  spark  of  animation  in  the  breast 
of  Briggs.  But  nothing  happened  so  vulgar  as  play. 
Punctually  at  the  appointed  time,  the  gong  was  sounded, 
and  the  studies,  under  the  joint  auspices  of  Doctor 
Blimber  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  resumed. 

As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had 
been  cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  ac- 
count, they  all  went  out  for  a  walk  before  tea.  Even 
Briggs  (though  he  hadn't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this  dis- 
sipation; in  the  enjoyment  of  which  ne  looked  over  the 
cliff  two  or  three  times  darkly.  Doctor  Blimber  ac- 
companied them;  and  Paul  had  the  honor  of  being 
taken  in  tow  by  the  doctor  himself:  a  distinguished 
state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little  and  feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  style  no  less  polite  than  the  din- 
ner; and  after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen  rising  and 
bowing  as  before,  withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinished 
tasks  of  that  day,  or  to  get  up  the  already  looming  tasks 
of  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Feeder  withdrev 
to  his  own  room;  and  Paul  sat  in  a  comer  wondering 
whether  Florence  was  thinking  of  him,  and  what  they 
were  all  about  at  Mrs,  Pipchin's, 

Mr,  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  important 
letter  from  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  found  Paul  out 
after  a  time;  and  after  looking  at  hiin  for  a  long  while, 
as  before,  inquired  if  he  was  fond  of  waistcoats. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ICO 

Paul  said  "  Yes,  sir," 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Toots. 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  nigkt;  but  he  stood 
looking  at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him;  and  as  there  was 
company  in  that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it      ^ 
answered. his  purpose  better  than  conversation. 

At  eight  o'clocK  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for 
prayers  in  the  dining-room,  wherfi  the  butler  after- 
wards presided  over  a  side  table,  on  which  bread  and 
cheese  and  beer  were  spread  for  such  young  gentlemen 
as  desired  to  parta&e  or  those  refreshments.  The  cere- 
monies concluded  by  the  doctor's  saying,  "Gentlemen, 
we  will  resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow;"  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  Paul  saw  Cornelia  Blimber's 
eye.  and  saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When  the  doctor 
had  said  these  words,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our 
studies  at  seven  to-morrow,"  the  pupils  bowed  again, 
and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up-stairs,  Briggs 
said  bis  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should 
wish  himself  dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a 
blackbird  he  had  at  home.  Tozer  didn't  say  much,  but 
he  sighed  a  good  deal,  and  told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  his 
turn  would  come  to-morrow^  After  uttering  those  pro- 
phetic words,  he  undressed  himself  moodily,  and  got 
mto  bed,  Briggs  was  in  his  bed  too,  and  Paul  in  his  bed 
too,  before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  appeared  to  take 
away  the  candle,  when  he  wished  them  good  night  and 
pleasant  dreams.  But  his  benevolent  wishes  were  in 
vain,  as  far  as  Briggs  and  Tozer  were  concerned;  for 
Paul,  who  lay  awake  for  a  long  while,  and  often  woke 
afterwards,  found  that  Briggs  was  ridden  hy  his  lesson 
as  a  nightmare;  and  that  Tozer,  whose  mmd  was  af- 
fected m  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a  minor  de- 
gree, talked  unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and 
Latin — it  was  all  one  to  Paul — which,  in  the  silence 
of  night,  had  an  inexpressibly  wicked  and  guilty  ef- 
fect. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that 
he  was  walking  hand  in  hand  with  Florence  through 
beautiful  gardens,  when  they  came  to  a  large  sunflower 
which  suddenly  expanded  itself  into  a  gong,  aa^  W- 
gan  to  sound.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  found  thaV  it  ■s^aso. 
dark,  windy  morning,  with  a  drizzling  ram-,  aa^A.  \Xv»X. 


m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  real  gong  was  giving  dreadful  note  of  preparation, 
down  in  the  nail. 

So  he  got  up  directly  and  found  Briggs,  with  hardly 
any  eyes,  for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  hie  face 
puffy,  putting  his  boots  on:  while  Tozer  stood  shivering 
and  ruobing  his  shoulders  in  a  very  bad  humor.  Poor 
Paul  couldn  t  dress  himself  easily,  not  being  used  to  it, 
and  asked  them  if  they  would  have  the  goodness  to  tie 
some  strings  for  him;  but  as  Briggs  merely  said 
"  Bother!"  and  Tozer,  "Oh  yesi"  he  went  down  when 
he  was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next  story,  where  he 
saw  a  pretty  young  woman  in  leather  gloves,  cleaning 
a  stove.  The  young  woman  seemed  surprised  at  bis 
appearance,  and  asked  him  where  his  mother  was. 
when  Paul  told  her  she  was  dead,  she  took  her  gloves 
off,  and  did  what  he  wanted;  and  furthermore  rubbed 
his  bands  to  warm  them;  and  gave  him  a  kiss;  and  told 
him  whenever  he  wanted  anything  of  that  sort — mean- 
ing in  the  dressing  way — to  ask  for  'Melia;  which  Paul, 
thanking  her  very  much,  said  he  certainly  would.  He 
then  proceeded  softly  on  his  journey  down-stairs,  to- 
wards the  room  in  which  the  young  gentlemen  resumed 
their  studies,  when,  passing  by  a  door  that  stood  ajar,  a 
voice  from  within  cried  "Is  that  Dombey?"  On  Paul 
replying,  "Yes,  ma'am: ""for, he  knew  the  voice  to  be 
Miss  Blimber's:  Miss  Blimber  said  "  Come  in,  Donibey." 
And  in  he  went. 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  the  appearance  she 
had  presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a  shawl. 
Her  little  light  curls  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had 
already  her  spectacles  on,"  which  made  Paul  wonder 
whether  she  went  to  bed  in  them.  She  had  a  cool  little 
sitting-room  of  her  own  up  there,  with  some  books  in  it. 
and  no  fire.  But  Miss  Blimber  was  never  cold,  and 
never  sleepy. 

"Now,  Domhey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "I'm  going  out 
for  a  constitutional." 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't 
send  the  .footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavorable 
weather.  But  he  made  no  observation  on  the  subject: 
his  attention  being  devoted  to  a  little  pile  of  new  books, 
on  which  Miss  Blimber  appeared  to  have  been  recently 
engaged. 

"These  are  yours,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  171 

"All  of  'em,  ma'am?"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,"  returned  Miss  Blimber;  "and  Mr.  Feeder  will 
look  you  out  some  more  very  soon,  if  you  are  as  stu- 
dious as  I  expect  you  will  be,  Dombey.'* 

"Thank  you  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  am  goiue  out  for  a  constitutional,"  resiuned  Miss 
Blimber;  "and  while  I  am  gone,  that  is  to  say  in  the 
interval  between  this  and  oreakfast,  Dombey,  I  wish 
you  to  read  over  what  I  have  marked  in  these  books, 
and  to  tell  me  if  you  quite  understand  what  you  have 
got  to  learn.  Don't  lose  time,  Dombey,  for  you  have 
none  to  spare,  but  take  them  down-stairs,  and  begin 
directly." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put 
one  hand  under  the  bottom  book  and  his  other  hand 
and  his  chin  on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  them  all 
closely,  the  middle  book  slipped  out  before  he  reached 
the  door,  and  then  they  all  tumbled  down  on  the  floor. 
Miss  Blimber  said,  "  Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey,  this  iw 
really  very  carelessi "  and  piled  them  up  afresh  for 
him;  and  this  time,  by  dint  of  balancing  them  with 
great  nicety,  Paul  got  out  of  the  room,  ana  down  a  few 
stairs  before  two  of  them  escaped  again.  But  he  held 
the  rest  so  tight,  that  he  only  left  one  more  on  the  first 
floor,  and  one  in  the  passage;  and  when  he  had  got  the 
main  body  down  into  the  school-room,  he  set  off  up- 
stairs agam  to  collect  the  stragglers.  Having  at  last 
amassed  the  whole  Hbrary,  ana  climbed  into  his  place, 
he  fell  to  work,  encouraged  by  a  remark  from  Tozer 
to  the  eflfect  that  he  "  was  in  for  it  now;"  which  was 
the  only  interruption  he  received  till  breakfast  time. 
At  that  meal,  for  which  he  had  no  appetite,  everythint; 
was  quite  as  solemn  and  genteel  as  at  the  others;  and 
when  it  was  finished,  he  followed  Miss  Blimber  up- 
stairs. 

"  Now.  Dombey,''  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  How  have 
you  got  on  with  those  books? " 

They  comprised  a  little  English,  and  a  deal  of  Latin- 
names  of  things,  declensions  of  articles  and  substan- 
tives, exercises  thereon,  and  preliminary  rules — a  trifle 
of  orthography,  a  glance  at  ancient  history,  a-wVoV:  01 
two  at  modern  ditto,  a  few  tables,  two  or  tnree  ■wii\Gyt9. 
and  measures,  aad  a  little  general  informalVoTV.     N^Ve\\ 


17a  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

poor  Paul  had  spelt  out  number  two,  he  found  he  had 
no  idea  of  number  one;  fragments  whereof  afterwards 
obtruded  themselves  into  number  three,  which  slided 
into  number  fout,  which  grafted  itself  on  to  number 
two.  So  that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a 
Remus,  or  hie  hsec  hoc  was  troy  weight,  or  a  verb 
always  agreed  with  an  ancient  Briton,  or  three  times 
four  .was  Taurus  a  bull,  were  open  (Questions  with  him, 

"  Oh,  Domboy,  Dombey! "  said  Miss  Blimber,  "this is 
very  shocking. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Paul,  "  I  think  if  I  might  some- 
times talk  a  little  to  old  Glubb,  I  should  be  able  to  do 
better." 

"Nonsense, Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't 
hear  of  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any  kind. 
You  must  take  the  books  down,  I  suppose,  Dombey,  one 
by  one,  and  perfect  yourself  in  the  day's  instalment  of 
subject  A,  before  you  turn  at  all  to  subject  B,  And 
now  take  away  the  top  book,  if  you  please,  Dombey, 
and  return  when  you  are  master  of  the  theme." 

Miss  Blimber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
Paul's  uninstructed  stat«  with  a  gloomy  delight,  as  if 
she  had  expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find  that 
they  must  oe  in  constant  communication.  Paul  with- 
drew with  the  top  task,  as  he  was  told,  and  labored 
away  at  it,  down  below:  sometimes  remembering  everj- 
word  of  it,  and  sometimes  forgetting  it  all,  and  every- 
thing else  besides:  until  at  last  he  ventured  up-stairs 
again  to  repeat  the  lesson,  when  it  was  nearly  all  driven 
out  of  his  head  before  he  began,  by  Miss  Blimber's 
shutting  up  the  book,  and  saying,  "  Go  on,  Dombey! " 
a  proceeding  so  suggestive  of  the  knowledge  inside 
of  her,  that  Paul  looked  upon  the  young  lady  with 
consternation,  as  a  kind  of  learned  Guy  Faux,  or  arti- 
ficial Bogle,  stuffed  full  of  scholastic  straw. 

He  acquitted  himself  very  well,  nevertheless^  and 
Miss  Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of 

getting  on  fast,  immediately  providea  him  with  subject 
;  from  which  he  passed  to  C,  and  even  D  before  din- 
ner. It  was  hard  work,  resuming  his  studies,  soon 
after  dinner;  and  he  felt  giddy  and  confused,  and 
drowsy  and  dull,  But  all  the  {)ther  young  gentlemen 
had  similar  sensations,  and  were  obliged  to  resume 
their  studies  too,  if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  17a 

It  was  a  wonder  that  the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead 
of  being  constant  to  its  first  inquiry,  never  said,  "  Gen- 
tlemen, we  will  now  resume  our  studies,"  for  that 
Phrase  was  often  enough  repeated  in  its  neighborhood, 
he  studies  went  round  like  a  mighty  wheel,  and  the 
young  gentlemen  were  always  stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations 
for  next  day  by  candle-light.  And  in  due  course  there 
was  bed;  wnere,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies 
which  took  place  in  dreams,  were  rest  and  sweet  for- 
getfulness. 

Oh  Saturdays!  Oh  happy  Saturdays!  when  Florence 
'always  came  at  noon,  ana  never  would,  in  anvweather, 
stav  away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled, 
ana  worried  her  bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sab- 
baths for  at  least  two  little  Christians  among  all  the 
Jews,  and  did  the  holy  Sabbath  work  of  strengthening 
and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a  sister's  love. 

Not  even  Sunday  nights^-the  lieavy  Sunday  nights, 
whose  shadow  darkened  the  first  wakmg  burst  of  Tight 
on  Sunday  mornings — could  mar  those  precious  Satur- 
days, whether  it  was  the  great  sea-shore,  where  they 
sat,  and  strolled  together;  or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  dull  back  room,  in  which  she  sang  to  him  so 
softly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  arm;  Paul  never 
cared.  It  was  Florence.  That  was  all  he  thoi^ht  of. 
So,  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the  doctor's  dark  door 
stood  f^ape  to  swallow  him  up  for  another  week,  the 
time  was  come  for  taking  leave  of  Florence;  no  one 
else. 

Mrs.  Wicfcam  had  been  drafted  home  to  the  house  in 
town,  and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a  smart  young  woman, 
had  come  down.  To  many  a  single  combat  with  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  did  Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself;  and 
if  ever  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  all  her  life  had  found  her  match, 
she  had  founa  it  now.  Miss  Nipper  threw  away  the 
scabbard  the  first  morning  she  arose  in  Mrs,  Pipchin's 
house.  She  asked  and  gave  no  quarter.  She  said  it 
must  be  war,  and  war  it  was;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived 
from  that  time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings, 
and  defiances;  and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came 
bouncing  in  upon  her  from  the  passage,  even  in  un- 

fuarded  moments  of  chops,  and  carried  AesoVB-^ou  Xft 
er  very  toast. 


1?4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

MisB  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with 
Florence,  irom  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  doctor's, 
when  Florence  took  from  her  bosom  a  little  piece  of 
paper,  on  which  she  had  pencilled  down  with  some 
words. 

"  See  here,  Susan,"  she  said.  "  These  are  the  names 
of  the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those 
long  exercises  with,  when  be  is  so  tired.  I  copied  them 
last  night  while  he  was  writing." 

'■Don't  show  'em  to  me.  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please,"  re- 
turned Nipper,  "  I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs,  Pipchin." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will, 
to-morrow  morning.  I  have  money  enough,"  said 
Florence. 

"Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  Miss  Floy,"  returned 
Miss  Nipper,  "how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you 
have  books  upon  books  already,  and  masterses  and 
misseses  a  teacning  of  you  every  thing  continual,  though 
my  belief  is  that  your  pa.  Miss  Dombey,  never  would 
have  learnt  you  nothing,  never  would  have  thought  of 
it,  unless  you'd  asked  him — when  he  couldn't  well  re- 
fuse; but  giving  consent  when  asked,  and  offering 
when  unasked,  miss,  is  quite  two  things;  I  may  not 
have  my  objections  to  a  young  man's  keeping  company 
with  me,  and  when  he  puts  the  question,  may  say 
'yes,' but  that's  not  saying 'would  you  be  so  kind  as 
like  me.'" 

"But  you  can  buy  me  the  books.  Susan;  and  you 
will,  when  you  know  I  want  them," 

"  Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  'em?  "  replied  Nip- 
per; adding,  in  a  lower  place,  "  if  it  was  to  fling  at  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load." 

"  I  think  I  could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan, 
if  I  had  these  books,"  said  Florence,  "and  make  the 
coming  week  a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I  want  to 
try.  So  buy  them  for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  forget 
how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  do  it! " 

It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper's 
that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  ne!d 
out  with  these  words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty 
with  which  she  seconded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the 
purse  in  her  pocket  without  reply,  and  trotted  out  at 
once  upon  her  errand. 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure;  and  the  answer 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  irft 

at  several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  out  of 
them,  or  that  they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had  had 
a  gVeat  many  last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a  great 
many  next  week.  But  Susan  was  not  easily  baffled  in 
such  an  enterprise:  and  having  entrapped  a  white- 
haired  youth,  m  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a  library 
where  sue  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a  life  in  going  qp  and  down  that  he 
exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid 
of  her;  and  finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in 
triumph. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  lessons 
were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track  Paul's 
footsteps  through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning;  and 
being   possessed   of  a  naturally  quick  and  sound  ca- 

f)acityj  and  taught  by  that  most  wonderful  of  masters, 
ove,  it  *as  not  long  before  she  gained  upon  Paul's 
heels,  and  caught  and  passed  him. 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin:  but 
many  a  night  when  they  were  all  in,bed,  and  when  Miss 
Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep  in 
some  uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by 
her  side:  and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate 
were  cold  and  grey;  and  when  the  candles  were  burnt 
down  and  guttgring  out; — Florence  tried  so  hard  to  be  a 
substitute  for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  fortitude  and 
perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a  free  right 
to  bear  the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  even- 
ing, as  little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  "  resume 
his  studies,"  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  Bhowe<l  him 
all  that  was  so  rough,  made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so 
d^rk,  ma<le  clear  and  plain,  before  him.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  startled  look  in  Paul's  wan  face — a  flush — a  smile 
— and  then  a  close  embrace — but  God  knows  how  her 
heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  for  her  trouble. 

"Oh,  Floy!  cried  her  brother,  "how  I  love  you! 
How  I  love  you,  Floy! " 

"And  I  you,  dear!  ' 

"Oh!  I  am  sure  of  that,  Floy." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  out  all  that  evening  sat 
close  by  her,  very  quiet;  and  in  the  night  he  called  out 
from  his  little  room  within  hers,  three  or  foux  ^.YCQfefe, 
that  he  loved  her. 


176  *    DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist 
him  through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together, 
of  his  nert  week's  work.  The  cheering  thought  that 
he  was  laboring  on  where  Florence  had  just  toiled  be- 
fore him,  would,  of  itself,  have  been  a  stimulant  to 
Paul  in  the  perpetual  resumption  of  his  studies;  but 
coupled  with  the  actual  li  ^htening  of  bis  load,  conse- 
quent on  this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly,  from 
smking  underneath  the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia 
Blimber  piled  upon  his  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too  hard 
upon  him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too 
heavily  on  the  young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia 
merely  held  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred;  and 
the  doctor,  in  some'  partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  re- 
garded the  young  gentlemen  as  if  they  were  all  doctors, 
and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the  applause 
of  the  young  gentlemen's  nearest  relations,  and  urged 
on  by  their  blind  vanity  and  ill-considered  haste,  it 
would  have  been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber  had  dis- 
covered his  mistake,  or  trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to 
any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber  said 
he  made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally'  clever,  Mr. 
Dombey  was  more  bent  than  ever  on  his  oeing  forced 
and  crammed.  In  the  ease  of  Briggs,  when  Doctor 
Blimber  reported  that  he  did  not  make  great  progress 
yet,  and  was  not  naturally  clever,  Briggs  senior  was  in- 
exorable in  the  same  purpose.  In  short,  however  high 
and  false  the  temperature  at  which  the  doctor  kept  nis 
hot-house,  the  owners  of  the  plants  were  always  ready 
to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  the  bellows,  and  to  stir  the 
fire. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset,  Paul  soon  lost  of 
course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and  old, 
and  thoughtful  in  his  character;  and  under  circum- 
stances so  favorable  to  the  development  of  those 
tendencies,  become  even  more  strange,  and  old,  and 
thoughtful,  than  before.' 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character  to 
himself.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved,  every 
day;  and  had  no  such  curiositv  in  any  livinc  member  of 
the  doctor's  household,  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs.  Pipchin. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  177 

f 
He  loved  to  be  alone;  and  in  thoBe  short  intervals  when 
he  was  not  occupied  with  his  books,  liked  nothing  so 
well  as  wandering  about  the  house,  by  himself,  or  sit- 
ting on  the  stairs,  listening  to  the  great  clock  in  the 
haU.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  paper-hanging  in 
the  house;  saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw  in  the  pat- 
terns; found  out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running  up 
the  bedroom  walls,  and  squinting  faces  leering  in  the 
squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  ara- 
besque work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  under- 
stood him.  Mrs.  Blimber  thought  him  "odd,"  and 
sometimes  the  servants  said  among  themselves  that 
little  Dombey  "moped:"  but  that  was  all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to 
the  expression  of  which  he  was  wholly  unequal.  Ideas, 
like  ghosts  (according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts), 
must  be  spoken  to  a  little  before  they  will  explain 
themselves;  and  Toots  had  long  left  off  asking  any 
questions  of  his  own  mind.  Some  mist  there  may  have 
been  issuing  from  that  leaden  casket,  his  cranium, 
which,  if  it  could  have  taken  shape  and  form,  would 
have  become  a  genie;  but  it  could  not;  and  it  only  so 
far  followed  the  example  of  the  smoke  in  the  Arabian 
story  as  to  roll  out  in  a  thick  cloud,  and  there  hang  and 
hover.  But  it  left  a  little  figure  visible  upon  a  lonely 
shore,  and  Toots  was  always  staring  at  it. 

"  How  are  you?  "  he  would  say  to  Paul  fifty  times  a 
day. 

"  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  "you,"  Paul  would  answer. 

"Shake  hands,"  would  be  Toots's  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediateljy^  do.  Mr, 
Toots  generally  said  again,  after  a  long  mterval  of 
staring  and  hard  breathmg,  "  How  are  you? "  To  which 
Paul  again  replied,  "  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you." 

One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  op- 
pressed by  correspondence,  when  a  great  purpose 
seemed  to  flash  upon  him.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and 
went  off  to  seek  Paul,  whom  he  found  at  last,  after  a 
long  search,  looking  through  the  window  of  his  little 
bedroom. 

"  I  say! "  cried  Toots,  speaking  the  moment  he  entered 
the  room,  lest  he  should  forget  it;  "  what  do  yoM  Vftvc^ 
about?" 


178  .  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

f'Oh!  I  think  about  a  great  many  things,"  replied 
Paul. 

"  Do.you,  though?"  said  Toots,  appearing  to  consider 
that  fact  in  itseli  surprising. 

"If  you  had  to  die,"  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his 
face — Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

"  — Don't  you  think  you  would  rather  die  on  a  moon- 
light night  when  the  aky  was  quite  clear,  and  the  wind 
blowing,  as  it  did  last  night?" 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shaking 
his  head,  that  he  didn'tltuow  about  that. 

"  Not  blowing,  at  least,"  said  Paul,  "  but  sounding  in 
the  air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful night.  When  I  had  listened  to  the  water  for  a  long 
time,  I  got  up  and  looked  out.  There  was  a  boat  over 
there,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon;  a  boat  with  a  sail." 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so 
earnestly,  that  Mr,  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon  to 
say  something  about  this  boat,  said,  "  Smugfglers.  But 
with  an  impartial  remembrance  of  there  being  two  sides 
to  every  question,  he  added,  "  or  Preventive. ' 

"  A  boat  with  a  sail,"  repeated  Paul,  "  in  the  full  light 
of  the  moon.  The  sail  like  ^n  arm,  all  silver.  It  went 
away  into  the  distance,  and  what  do  you  think  it  seemed 
to  do  as  it  moved  with  the  waves?" 

"  Pitch,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  seemed  to  beckon,"  said  the  child,  "  to  beckon  me 
to  come! — There  she  isl  There  she  is!" 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this 
sudden  exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and 
,  cried  "  WTio?" 

"My  sister  Florence!"  cried  Paul,  " looking  up  here, 
and  waiving  her  hand.  She  sees  me — she  sees  me! 
Good  night,  dear,  good  night,  good  night," 

His  quick  transition  to  a  state  of  unbounded  pleasure, 
as  he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his 
hands:  and  the  way  in  which  the  fight  retreated  irom 
liis  features  as  she  passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a 
patient  melancholy  dn  the  little  face,  were  too  remark- 
able wholly  to  escape  even  Toot's  notice.  Their  inter- 
view being  interrupted  at  this  moment  by  a  visit  from 
Mrs,Pipchin,  who  usually  brought  her  black  skirts  to 
bear  upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  twice  a  week. 
Toots  liad  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occasion; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  179 

but  it  left  BO  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he 
twice  returned,  after  having  exchanged  the  usual  salu- 
tations, to  ask  Mrs.  Pipchin  how  she  did.  This  the 
irascible  old  lady  conceived  to  be  a  deeply-devised  anil 
long-meditated  msult,  originating  in  the  diabolical  in- 
vention of  the  weak-eyed  young  man  down-stairs, 
against  whom  she  accordingly  lodged  a  formal  complaint 
with  Doctor  Blimberthat  very  night;  who  mentioned  to 
the  young  man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again  he  should  be 
obliged  to  part  with  him. 

TEe  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to  his 
window  every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence,  She 
always  passed  and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  until  she 
saw  him;  and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life.  Often  after  dark,  one  other 
figure  walked  alone  before  the  doctor's  house.  He  rarel  j' 
iomed  them  on  the  Saturday  now.  He  could  not  boar  it. 
He  would  rather  come  unrecognised,  and  loot  up  at  the 
windows  where  his  son  was  qualifying  for  a  man;  and 
wait,  and  watch,  and  plan,  and  hope. 

Oh!  could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did,  the 
slight  spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and  clouds 
at  twilieht,  with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting  the  win- 
dow of  nis  solitary  cage  when  birds  flew  by,  as  if  he 
would  have  emulated  tnem,  and  soared  away! 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

SHIPPING   INTELLIGENCE   AND  OFFICE  BUSINESS. 

Me.  Dombet's  offices  were  in  a  court  where  there  was 
an  old-established  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  corner: 
where  perarabulatinK  merchants,  of  both  sexes,  offered 
for  sale  at  any  time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five, 
slippers,  pocket-books,  sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Wind- 
sor soap;  and  sometimes  a  pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 

The  pointer  always"  came  that  way,  with  a  view  to 
the  Stock  Exchange,  where  a  sporting  taste  (originating 
generally  in  bets  •f  new  hats)  is  much  in  vogwe.  '^\\e 
other  commodities  were  addressed  to  the  getieTal  'p>Ai\\f, 


ISO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

but  they  were  never  offered  by  the  vendors  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.  When  he  appeared,  the  dealers  in  those  wares  fell 
off  respectfully.  The  principal  slipper  and  dogs'  col- 
lar man — who  considered  himself  a  public  character, 
and  whose  portrait  was  screwed  on  to  an  artist's  door 
in  Cheapside — threw  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  ■vwint  by.  The  ticket-porter  if  he 
were  not  absent  on  a  job,  always  ran  officiously  before, 
to  open  Mr.  Dombey's  office  door  as  wide  as  possible, 
and  tiold  it  open,  with  his  hat  off,  while  he  entered 

The  clerks  within  were  not  a  whit  bebind-band  in 
their  demonstrations  of  respect.  A  solemn  hush  pre- 
vailed, a^  Mr,  Dombej'  passed  through  the  outer  omce. 
The  wit  of  the  Countmg-House  became  in  a  moment  as 
mute  as  the  row  of  leathern  fire-buckets,  hanging  up 
behind  him.  Such  vapid  and  flat  day-light  as  filtered 
through  the  ground-glass  windows,  and  skylights,  leav- 
ing a  black  sediment  upon  the  panes,  showed  the  books 
and  papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over  them,  envel- 
oped in  a  studious  gloom,  and  as  much  abstracted  in 
appearance,  from  the  world  without,  as  if  they  were 
assembled  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea;  while  a  mouldy 
little  strong  room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a 
shaded  lamp  was  always  burning,  might  have  repre- 
sented the  cavern  of  some  ocean-monster,  looking  on 
with  a  red  eye  at  these  mysteries  of  the  deep. 

When  Perch,  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a  little 
bracket,  like  a  time-piece,  saw  Mr.  Dombey  come  in — 
or  rather,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he  had 
usually  an  instinctive  sense  of  his  approach — he  hurried 
into  Itfr.  Dombey's  room,  stirred  the  fire,  quarried  fresh 
coals  from  the  bowels  of  the  coal  box,  hung  the  news- 
paper to  air  upon  the  fender,  put  the  chair  ready,  and 
the  screen  in  its  place,  and  was  rou:.A  upon  his  heel  on 
the  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey's  entrance,  to  take  his  great- 
coat and  hat,  and  hang  them  up.  Then  Perch  took  the 
newspaper,  and  gave  it  a  turn  or  two  in  his  hands  before 
the  nre,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr.  Dombey's 
elbow.  And  so  little  objection  baa  Perch  to  doing  def- 
ferential  in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might  have  laid 
himself  at  Mr.  Dombey's  feet,  or  might  have  called  him 

Ssome   such  title  as  used  to   be  bestowed   upon   the 
liph  Haroun  Alraschid,  he  would  have  been  all  the 
better  pleased. 

D,g,l.2cd|v,G00glc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  181- 

Ab  this  honor  would  have  been  an  innovation  and  an 
experiment,  Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  ex- 
pressing as  well  as  he  could,  in  his  manner,  You  are 
the  light  of  my  Eyes.  You  are  the  Breath  of  my  Soul. 
You  are  the  commander  of  the  Faithful  PerchI  With 
this  imperfect  happiness  to  cheer  him,  he  would  shut 
the  door  softly,  walk  away  on  tiptoe,  and  leave  his 
great  chief  to  be  stared  at,  through  a  dome-shaped 
window  in  the  leads,  by  ugly  chimney  pots  and  backs  of 
houses,  and  especially  by  the  bold  window  of  a  hair-cut- 
ting saloon  on  a  first  floor,  where  a  waxen  effigy,  bald 
as  a  Mussulman  in  the  morning,  and  coverea  after 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  day  with  luxuriant  hair  and 
whiskers  in  the  latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him 
the  wrong  side  of  its  hoad  for  ever. 

Between  Mr.  Domhey  and  the  conmaon  world,  as  it 
was  accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office 
— to  which  Mr.  Dombey's  presence  in  his  owtt  room  may 
be  said  to  have  struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air — there 
were  two  degrees  of  descent.  Mr.  Carker  in  his  own 
office  was  the  first  step;  Mr.  Morfin,  in  his  own  office, 
was  the  second.  Each  of  these  gentlemen  occupied  a 
little  chamber  like  a  bath-room,  opening  from  the  pas- 
sage outside  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  Mr.  Carker,  as  Grand 
Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  Sul- 
tan. Mr.  Morfin,  as  an  officer  of  inferior  state,  inhab- 
ited the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a  cheerful-looking 
hazel-eyed  elderly  bachelor:  gravely  attired,  as  to  his 
upper  man,  In  black;  and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper  and 
salt  color.  His  dark  hair  was  just  touched  here  and 
there  with  specks  of  grey,  as  though  the  tread  of  Time 
had  splashed  it:  and  his  whiskers  were  already  white. 
He  had  a  mighty  respect  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  rendered 
him  due  homage ;  hut  as  he  was  of  a  genial  temper  him- 
self, and  never  wholly  at  his  ease  in  that  stately  pres- 
ence, he  was  disquieted  by  no  jealousy  of  the  many 
conferences  enjoyed  bv  Mr.  Carter,  and  felt  a  secret 
satisfaction  in  having  auties  to  discharge,  which  rareW 
exposed  him  to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinction.  lie 
was  a  great  musical  amateur  in  his  way — after  busi- 
ness; and  had  a  paternal  affection  for  his  violoncello, 
which  was  once  in  every  week  transported  fTor[v\^YCi%- 
ton,  his  place  of  abode,  to  a  certain  club-TOOia^a.a.tA.'av 


18*  DOMBEY  AND  80N. 

the  Bank,  where  quartettes  of  the  most  tormenting  and 
excruciating  nature  were  executed  every  Wednesday 
evening  by  a  private  party.  Mr.  Carker  was  a  gentle- 
man thirty-eight  or  forty  years  old,  of  a  florid  complex- 
ion, and  with  two  unbroken  rows  of  glistening  teeth, 
whose  regularitv  and  whiteness  were  quite  distressing. 
It  was  impossible  to  escape  the  observation  of  them,  for 
he  showed  them  whenever  he  spoke;  and  bore  so  wi<lc 
a  smile  upon  his  countenance  (a  smile,  however,  very 
rarely,  indeed,  extending  beyond  his  mouth)  that  there 
was  something  in  it  like  the  "snarl  of  a  cat.  He  affected 
a  stiff  white  cravat,  after  the  example  of  his  principal, 
and  was  always  closely  buttoned  up  and  tightly 
dressed.  His  manner  towards  Mr.  Dombey  was  deeply 
conceived  and  perfectly  expressed.  He  was  familiar 
with  him,  in  the  very  extremity  of  his  sense  of  the  dis- 
tance between  them,  "  Mr.  Dombey,  to  a  man  in  your 
position  from  a  man  in  mine,  there  is  no  show  of  sub- 
servience compatible  with  the  transaction  of  business 
between  us,  that  I  should  think  sufficient,  I  frankly 
tell  you,  sir,  I  give  it  up  altogether.  I  feel  that  I  coulll 
not  satisfy  my  own  mind;  and  Heaven  knows,  Mr, 
Dombey,  you  can  afford  to  dispense  with  the  endeavor." 
If  he  had  carried  these  words  about  with  him,  printed 
on  a  placard,  and  had  constantly  offered  it  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  perusal  on  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  explicit  than  he  was. 

This  was  Carker  the  manager,  Mr.  Carker  the  junior, 
Walter's  friend,  was  his  brother;  two  or  three  years 
older  than  he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The 
younger  brother's  post  was  on  the  top  of  the  ofRcial  lad- 
der; the  elder  brother's  at  the  bottom.  The  elder 
brother  never  gained  a  stave,  or  raised  his  foot  to 
mount  one.  Young  men  passed  above  his  head,  and 
rose  and  rose;  but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom.  He 
was  quite  resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition:  never 
complained  of  it:  and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape 
from  it. 

"  How  do  you  do  this  morning? "  said  Mr,  Carker  the 
manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey's  room  soon  after  his 
arrival  one  day:  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Carker?"  aaia  Mr,  Dombey,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
"  Have  you  anything  there  for  me?  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  183 

"I  don't  know  that  I  need  trouble  you,"  returned 
Carker,  turning  over  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "You 
have  a  committee  to-day  at  three,  you  know," 

"And  one  at  three,  three  quarters,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

'■  Catch  you  forgetting  anything!  "  exclaimed  Carker, 
still  turning  over  his  papers.  "  If  Mr.  Paul  inherits 
your  memory,  he'll  be  a-  troublesome  customer  in  the 
House.     One  of  you  is  enough." 

"You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  OhI  I"  returned  the  manager.  "  It's  the  only  capi- 
tal of  a.  man  tike  me." 

Mr.  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  dis- 
pleased, as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece, 
surveying  his  (of  course  unconscious)  clerk,  from  head 
to  foot.  The  stiffness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker's  dress, 
and  a  certain  arrogance  of  manner,  either  natural  to 
him  or  imitated  from  a  pattern  not  far  off,  gave  great 
additional  effect  to  his  humility.  He  seemed  a  man 
who  would  contend  against  the  power  that  vanquished 
him,  if  he  could,  but  who  was  utterly  borne  down  by  the 
greatness  and  superiority  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  la  Morfin  here?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey.  after  a  sh<jrt 
pause,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  fluttering  his 
papers,  and  muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  contents 
to  himself. 

"Morfin's  here,"  h^answered,  looking  up  with  his 
widest  and  most  sudden  sniile;  "humming  musical 
recollections — of  his  last  night's  quartette  party,  I  sup- 

Eose — through  the  walls  between  us,  and  driving  me 
alf  mad.    I  wish  he'd  make  a  bonfire  of  his  violon- 
cello, and  bum  his  music  books  in  it." 

"You  respect  nobody,  Carker,  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"No?"  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most 
feline  show  of  his  teeth.  "Well!  Not  many  people  I 
believe.  I  wouldn't  answer,  perhaps,"  he  murmured,  as 
if  he  were  only  thinking  it,  "  for  more  than  one," 

A  dangerous  quality,  if  real;  and  a  not  less  dangerous 
one,  if  feigned,  cut  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed  to  think 
so,  as  he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  drawn  up 
to  his  full  height,  and  looking  at  his  bead-clerk  with  a 
dignified  composure,  in  which  there  fieera^  \o  \\ttV  ^ 
stronger  latent  sense  of  power  than  usuaV. 


ISi  DOMBEY  AND  SOK, 

"Talking  of  Morfin,"  resumed  Mr,  Carker,  taking  out 
one  paper  from  the  rest,  "  lie  reports  a  junior  dead  in 
the  agency  at  Barbadoes,  and  proposes  to  reserve  a  pas- 
sage m  the  Son  and  Heir^she'll  sail  in  a  month  or  so— 
for  the  successor.  You  don't  care  who  goes,  I  suppose? 
We  have  nobody  of  that  sort  here." 

Mr.  Dombey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  indifference. 

"It's  no  very  precious  appointment,"  observed  Mr. 
Carker,  taking  up  a  pen,  witii  which  to  endorse  a  mem- 
orandum on  the  back  of  the  paper.  "I  hope  he  ma'r 
bestow  it  on  some  orphan  nemiew  of  a  musical- friend. 
It  may  perhaps  stop  nis  fiddle-playing,  if  he  has  a  gift 
that  way.     Who's  that?    Come  in!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here,  sir,  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some 
letters  in  his  hand,  unopened  and  newly  amved.  "  Mr. 
Carker  the  junior,  sir — ^' 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was,  or  affected  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  with  shame 
and  humiliation.  He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr.  Dombey 
with  an  altered  and  apologetic  look,  abased  them  on  the 
ground,  and  remained  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 
-  "  I  thought,  sir,"  he  said  suddenly  and  angrfly,  turn- 
ing on  W^ter,  "  that  you  had  been  before  requested  not 
to  drag  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  into  your  conversation." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Walter,  "I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  Mr,  Carker  the  junior  had  told  me  he 
believed  yoii  were  gone  out,  or  I  should  not  have  knocked 
at  the  door  when  you  were  engaged  with  Mr.-  Dombey. 
These  are  letters  for  Mr.  Dombey,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 

E  lucking  them  sharply  from  his  hand.     "Go  about  your 
usiness." 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little  ceremony,  Mr.  Car- 
ker dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  see  what  he 
had  done;  neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter 
lying  near  his  feet.  Walter  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
tninking  that  one  or  the  other  of  them  would  notice  it; 
but  finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped,  came  back, 
picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr,  Dombey's  desk. 
The  letters  were  post-letters;  and  it  happened  that  the 
one  in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  regular  report, 
directed  as  usual^for  Mrs.  Pipcnin  was  but  an  imiiffer- 
ont  pen-woman — by  Florence.    Mr.  Dombey  having  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  185 

attention  silently  called  to  this  letter  by  Walter,  started, 
and  looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if  he  believed  that  he  had 
purpoHely  selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

"You  can  leave  the  room,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
haughtily. 

He  crushedtheletterin  his  hand;  and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without 
breaking  the  seal. 

"  You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  West  Indies, 
you  were  saying,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Carker. 

"  Send  young  Gay." 

"Good,  very  gooa  indeed.  Nothing:  easier,"  said  Mr. 
Carker,  without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up 
the  pen  to  re-endorse  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done 
before.     "  '  Send  young  Gay.' " 

*'  Call  him  back,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  quick 
to  return. 

"Gay,"  said  Mr.  Domb^,  turning  a  little  to  look  at 
him  over  his  shoulder.     "  Here  is  a — " 

"An  opening,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth 
stretched  to  the  utmost. 

"  In  the  West  Indies.  At  Barbadoes.  I  am  going 
to  send  you,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  scorning  to  embellish 
the  bare  truth,  "to  fill  a  junior  situation  in  the  counting- 
house  at  Barbadoes.  Let  your  uncle  know  from  me  that 
I  have  chosen  you  to  go  to  the  West  Indies." 

Walter's  breatli  was  so  completely  taken  away  by  his 
astonishment  that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  the 
repetition  of  the  words  "  West  Indies." 

"Somebody  must  go,"  said  Mr.  D()mbe^,  "and  you 
are  young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle's  circumstances 
are  not  good.  Tell  your  uncle  that  you  are  appointed. 
You  will  not  go  yet.  There  will  be  an  interval  of  a 
month — or  two  perhaps." 

"Shall  I  remain  there,  sir? "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Will  you  remain  there,  sir! "  repeated  Mr,  Dombey, 
turning  a  little  more  round  towards  him.  "What  ao 
you  mean?    What  does  he  mean,  Carker?" 

"  Live  there,  sir,"  faltered  Walter. 

"Certainly,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

"That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters. 


186  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"You  will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual 
outfit  and  so  forth,  Carker,  of  course.  He  needn't  wait, 
Carker. " 

*■'  You  needn't  wait,  Gay,"  observed  Mr,  Carker — bare 
to  the  gums. 

"  Unless,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading 
without  looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen, 
"  Unless  he  has  anything  to  say." 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Walter,  a^tated  and  confused, 
and  almost  stunned,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  pictures 
presented  themselves  to  his  mind;  among  which  Captain 
Cuttle,  in  his  glazed  hat,  transfixed  with  astonishment 
at  Mrs,  MacStmger'fi.  and  his  uncle  bemoaning  his  loss 
in  the  little  back  parlor,  held  prominent  places.  "I 
hardly  know — I — I  am  much  obliged,  sir." 

"  He  needn't  wait,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  also 
collected  his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  away  too,  Wal- 
ter felt  that  his  lingering  any  longer  would  be  an  un- 
pardonable intrusion — especially  as  he  had  nothing  to 
say — and  therefore  walked  out  quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  conscious- 
ness and  helplessness  of  a  dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  door  shut  again,  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out:  and 
immediately  afterwards  that  gentleman  called  to  him. 

"  Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  to  my  room, 
sir,  if  you  please." 

Walter  went  to  tfee  outer  office  and  apprised  Mr.  Carker 
the  junior  of  his  errand,  who  accordingly  came  out  from 
behind  a  partition  where  he  sat  alone  in  one  corner, 
and  returned  with  him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager. 

That  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over  his 
white  cravat,  as  unpromisingly  as  Mr.  Dombey  him- 
self could  have  looked.  He  received  them  without  any 
change  in  his  attitude  or  softening  of  his  harsh  and 
black  expression,  merely  signing  to  xValter  to  close  the 
.  door. 

"  John  Carker,"  said  the  manager  when  this  was 
done,  turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his  two 
rows  of  teeth  bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him, 
"  what  is  the  league  between  you  and  this  young  man, 
in  virtue  of  which  I  am  haunted  and  hunted  oy  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  18? 

raentioD  of  your  name?  Is  it  not  enough  for  you,  John 
Carker,  that  I  am  your  near  relation  and  can't  detach 
myself  from  that — " 

"  Say  disjgrace,  James,"  interposed  the  other  in  a  low 
voice,  finding  that  he  etammered  for  a  word.  "You 
mean  it,  and  nave  reason — say  disgrace." 

"  From  that  disgrace,"  assented  Eis  brother,  with  keen 
emphasis,  "  but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and  trum- 
peted, and  proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence  of 
the  very  House!  In  moments  of  confidence  too?  Do 
you  think  your  name  is  calculated  to  harmonise  in  this 
plaoe  with  trust  and  confidence,  John  Carker?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  other.  "  No,  James.  God  knows 
I  have  no  such  thought." 

"  What  is  your  thought  then?  "  said  his  brother,  "  and 
why  do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way?  Haven't  you 
injured  me  enough  already?" 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,  James,  wilfully." 

"You  are  ray  brother,"  said  the  manager.  "That's 
injury  enough." 

•'  I  wish  I  could  undo  it,  James." 

"  I  wish  vou  could  and  would." 

During  tnis  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  one 
brother  to  the  other,  with  pain  and  amazement.  He 
w^ho  was  the  senior  in  years,  and  junior  in  the  house, 
stood,  with  hia  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head 
bowed,  humbly  listening  to  the  reproaches  of  the  other. 
Though  these  were  rendered  very  bitter  hv  the  tone  and 
look  with  which  they  were  accompaniea,  and  by  the 
presence  of  Walter  whom  they  so  much  surprisea  and 
shocked,  he  entered  no  other  protest  against  them  than 
by  sUghtly  raising  his  right  hand  m  a  deprecatory 
manner,  as  if  he  would  have  said,  "Spare  mel "  So, 
had  they  been  blows,  and  he  a  brave  man,  under  strong 
constraint,  and  weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he  might 
have  stood  before  the  executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  alt  his  emotions,  and  regarding 
himself  as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  W'alter 
now  struck  in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  felt. 

"  Mr.  Carker,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  man- 
ager. "  Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault  solely.  In  a 
kmd  of  heedlessness  for  which  I  cannot  blame  myself 
enoughj  I  have,  I  have  no  doubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carker 
the  junior  much  oftener  than  was  neceBeary-,  au^V'^L'^Q 


188  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

allowed  his  name  sometimes  to  slip  through  my  lips, 
when  it  was  against  your  express  wish,  _  But  it  has  been 
my  own  miBtake,  sir.  We  have  never'  exchanged  one 
word  upon  the  subject — very  few,  indeed,  on  any  sut 
ject.  And  it  has  not  been,"  added  Walter,  after  a  mo- 
nfent's  pause,  "all  heedlessness  on  my  part,  sir:  fori 
have  felt  an  interest  in  Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I  have 
been  here,  and  have  hardly  been  able  to  help  speaking 
of  him  sometimes,  when  I  have  thought  of  him  so 
much! " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  veir 
breath  of  honor.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  bead, 
and  the  downcast  eves,  and  upraised  hand,  atid  thought. 
"I  have  felt  it;  ana  why  should  I  not  avow  it  in  behalf 
of  this  unfriended,  broken  man!" 

"In  truth  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr,  Carker,"  said 
Walter,  with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes;  so  true  was  his 
compassion.     "  I  know  it.  to  my  disappointment  and  re- 

fret.  When  I  first  came  here,  and  ever  since,  I  am  sure 
have  tried  to  be  as  much  your  friend  as  one  of  my  age 
could  presume  to  be;  but  it  has  been  of  no  use," 

"And  observe,"  said  the  manager,  taking  him  up 
guickly,  "it  will  be  of  still  less  use,  Gay,  if  you  persist 
in  forcing  Mr.  John  Carker's  name  on  people's  atten- 
tion. That  is  not  the  way  to  befriend  Mr.  John  Carker. 
Ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

"  It  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  the  brother.  "  It  only 
leads  to  such  a  conversation  as  the  present,  which  I 
need  not  say  I  could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be 
a  better  friend  to  me : "  he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as 
if  he  would  impress  it  upon  Walter:  "  than  in  forgetting 
me,  and  leaving  me  to  go  my  way,  unquestioned  and 
unnoticed." 

"  Your  memory  not  being  retentive,  Gay,  of  what  you 
are  told  by  others,"  said  Mr,  Carker  the  manager,  warm- 
ing himself  with  great  and  increased  satis&ction,  "I 
thought  it  well  that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the 
best  authority,"  nodaing  towards  his  brother,  "You 
are  not  likely  to  forget  it  now,  I  hope.  That's  all.  Gay. 
You  can  go. 

Walter  passed'  out  at  the  door,  and  was  about  to  close 
it  after  him,  when  hearing  the  voice  of  the  brothers 
again,  and  also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood 
irresolutely,  with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  189 

ajar,  uncertain  whether  to  return  or  go  away.    In  this 
position  he  could  not  help  overhearing  what  followed. 

"  Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James,"  said 
John  Carker,  "when  I  tell  you  I  have  had — how  could 
I  help  having,  with  my  history,  written  here  " — striking 
himself  upon  the  breast,  "my  whole  heart  awakened 
by  my  observation  of  that  boy,  Walter  Qay.  I  saw  in 
him  when  he  first  came  here,  almost  my  other  self," 
>  "Your  other  self!"  repeated  the  manager,  disdain- 
fully. 

"Not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  was  when  I  first  came  here 
too;  as  sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced; 
flushed  with  the  same  restless  and  adventurous  fancies; 
and  full  of  the  same  qualities,  fraught  with  the  same 
capacity  of  leading- on  to  good  or  evil." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and 
sarcastic  meaning  in  his  tone, 

"  You  strike  me  sharply;  and  your  hand  is  steady, 
and  your  thrust  is  very  deep,"  returned  the  other,  speak- 
ing (or  so  Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon 
actually  stabbed  him  as  ne  spoke.  "  I  imagined  all  this 
when  he  was  a  boy.  I  believed  it.  It  was  a  truth  to 
me.  I  saw  him  lightly  walking  on  the  edge  of  an  un- 
seen gulf  where  so  many  others  walk  with  equal  gaiety, 
and  from  which — " 

"The  old  excuse,"  interrupted  his  brother  as  he  stirred 
the  fire.     "  So  many.     Go  on.     Say,  so  many  fall." 

"  From  which  one  traveller  fell,"  returned  the  ojher, 
"  who  set  forward,  on  his  way,  a  boy  like  him,  and 
missed  his  footing  more  and  more,  and  slipped  a  little 
and  a  little  lower,  and  went  on  stumbling  still,  until  he 
fell  headlong  and  found  himself  below  a  shattered  man. 
Think  what  I  suffered  when  I  watched  that  boy." 

"  You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,"  returned 
the  brother. 

"Only  myself,"  he  assented  with  a  sigh.  "I  don't 
seek  to  divide  the  blame  or  shame," 

"You  have  divided  the  shame,"  James  Carker  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and 
such  close  teeth,  he  could  mutter  well. 

"Ah  James,"  returned  his  brother,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  to  have  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  "  I  have  been,  since  then,  a  useful  foil  to  you. 


190  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

You  have  trodden  on  me  freely,  in  your  climbing  up. 
Don't  spurn  me  with  your  heel? 

A  Bilence  eijsued.  After  a  time,  Mr.  Carker  the  mau- 
ager  was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he  had 
resolved  to  bring  the  interview  to  a  conclusion.  At  the 
same  time  his  brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the  door, 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "I  watched  him  with  such 
trembling  and  such  fear,  as  was  some  little  punishment 
to  me,  until  he  passed  the  ^lace  where  I  first  fell;  ^<i 
then,  though  I  had  been  his  father,  I  believe  I  never 
could  have  thanked  God  more  devoutly.  I  didn't  dare 
to  warn  him,  and  advise  him:  but  if  I  had  seen  direct 
cause,  I  would  have  shown  him  my  example,  I  was 
afraid  to  be  seen  speaking  with  him,  lest  it  should  be 
thought  I  did  him  harm,  and  tempted  him  to  evil,  and 
corrupted  him;  or  lest  I  really  should.  There  may  be 
such  contagion  in  me;  I  don't  know.  Piece  out  my  his- 
tory, in  connexion  with  younp  Walter  Gay,  and  what 
he  has  made  me  feel;  and  thmk  of  me  more  leniently, 
James,  if  you  can." 

With  these  words  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was 
standing.  He  turned  a  little  paler  when  he  saw  him 
there,  and  paler  yet  when  Walter  caught  him  by  the 
hand,  and  said  in  a  whisper: 

"Mr.  .Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you!  Let  me  say 
how  much  I  feel  for  you!  How  sorry  I  am  to  have  been 
the  unhappy  cause  of  all  this!  How  I  almost  look  upon 
you  now  as  my  protector  and  guardian!  How  verv, 
vefy  much,  I  feel  obliged  to  you  and  pity  you!"  said 
Walter,  squeezing  both  his  hands,  and  hardly  knowing, 
in  his  agitation,  what  he  did  or  said. 

Mr.  Morfin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and 
the  door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord: 
the  passage  bemg  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing 
to  or  fro.  When  they  were  there,  and  Walter  saw  in 
Mr.  Carker's  face  some  traces  of  the  emotion  within,  he 
almost  felt  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the  face  before;  it 
was  so  greatly  changed. 

"Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"I  am  far  removed  from  you,  and  may  I  ever  be.  Do 
you  know  what  I  am?" 

"  What  you  are^"  appeared  to  hang  on  Walter's  lips, 
as  he  regarded  him  attentively. 

"It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  "  before  my  twenty-first 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  191 

birthday — led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till  near 
that  time.  I  had  robbed  them  when  I  came  of  age.  I 
robbed  them  afterwards.  Before  my  twenty-second 
birthday,  it  was  all  found  out;  and  then,  Walter,  from 
all  men  s  society,  I  died," 

Ag^n  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Wai- 
ter's lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of 
his  own. 

"  The  House  was  verjy  good  to  me.  May  Heaven  re- 
ward the  old  man  for  his  forbearance!  This  one,  too, 
his  son,  who  was  then  newly  in  the  firm,  where  I  had 
held  great  trust!  I  was  called  into  that  room  which  is 
now  his^I  have  never  entered  it  sincfi— and  came  out 
what  you  know  me.  For  many  years  I  sat  in  my  pres- 
ent seat,  alone  as  now,  but  then  a  known  and  recognised 
example  to  the  rest.  They  were  all  merciful  to  me,  and 
■  I  lived.'  Time  has  altered  thatpart  of  my  poor  expia- 
tion; and  I  think,  except  the  three  heads  of  the  House, 
there  is  no  one  here  who  knows  my  story  rightlj'.  Be- 
fore the  little  boy  grows  up,  and  has  it  told  to  him,  my 
comer  may  be  vacant.  I  would  rather  that  it  might  be 
so!  This  is  the  only  change  to  me  since  that  day,  when 
I  left  all  youth,  ana  hope,  and  good  men's  company,  be- 
hind me  m  that  room.  God  bless  you,  Walter!  Keep 
you,  and  all  dear  to  you,  in  honesty,  or  strike  them 
de&d!" 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
as  if  with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears, 
was  all  that  Walter  could  add  to  this,  when  he  tried  to 
recall  exactly  what  had  passed  between  them. 

When  Walter  saw  him  next,  be  was  bending  over  his 
desk,  in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then, 
observing  him  at  his  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he 
evidently  was  that  no  further  intercourse  should  arise 
between  them,  and  thinking  a^ain  and  again  on  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard  that  mornmg  in  so  short  a  time,  in 
connexion  with  the  history  of  both  the  Carkers,  Walter 
could  hardly  believe  that  hf  was  under  orders  for  the 
West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle  Sol,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between  of 
Florence  Dombey — no,  he  meant  Paul — and  to  all  he 
loved,  and  liked,  and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated 
to  the  outer  office;  for  while  he  sat  with  a  heavy  heart, 


192  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pondering  on  these  things,  and  resting  his  head  upon 
his  arm,  Perch,'  the  messenger,  descending  from  his 
mahogaJiy  bracket,  and  jogging  his  elbow,  oegged  his 
pardon,  but  wished  to  say  in  his  ear,  Did  he  think  he 
could  arrange  to  send  home  to  England  a  jar  of  pre- 
served ginger,  cheap,  for  Mrs.  Perch's  own  eating,  in 
the  course  of  her  recovery  from  her  next  confinement? 


CHAPTER  XrV. 


When  the  Midsummer  vacation  approached,  no  in- 
decent manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the 
leaden-eyed  young  gentlemen  assembled  at  Dr.  Blim- 
ber's.  Any  such  violent  expression  as  "breaking  up." 
would  have  been  quite  inapplicable  to  that  polite  estab- 
lishment. The  young  gentlemen  oozed  away,  semi- 
annually, to  their  own  homes;  but  they  never  broke  up. 
They  would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by 
a  starched  white  cambric  neckkerchief ,  which  he  wore 
at  the  express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who, 
designing  him  for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he 
couldn't  De  in  that  forward  state  of  preparation  too 
soon — Tozer  said,  indeed,  that  choosing  between  two 
evils,  he  thought  he  would  rather  stay  where  he  was 
than  go  home.  However  inconsistent  this  declaration 
might  appear  with  that  passage  in  Tozer's  Essay  on  the 
subject,  wherein  he  had  observed  "that  the  thoughtB  of 
home  and  all  its  recollections  awakened  in  his  mind  the 
most  pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,"  and 
had  also  likened  himself  to  a  Roman  general,  flushed 
with  a  recent  victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Car- 
thaginian spoil,  advancing  within  a  few  hours'  march 
of  the  Capitol,  pre-supposed,  for  the  purposes  of  the 
simile,  to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  still  it 
was  very  sincerely  made.  For  it  seemed  that  Tozer 
had  a  dreadful  uncle,  who  not  only  volunteered  exam- 


DOMBEY  AND  BON.  193 

iuutions  of  him,  in  the  holidays,  on  ahstruse  points,  but 
twisted  innocent  events  and  things,  and  wrenched 
them  to  the  same  fell  purpose.  So  that  if  this  uncle 
took  him  to  the  play,  or,  on  a  similar  pretence  of  kind- 
ness, carried  him  to  see  a  giant,  or  a  dwarf,  or  a  con- 
jurer, or  anything,  Tozer  knew  he  had  read  up  some 
classical  allusion  to  the  subject  beforehand,  and  was 
thrown  into  a  state  of  mortal  apprehension:  not  forsee- 
ing  where  he  might  break  out,  or  what  authority  he 
might  not  quote  a^rainst  him. 

As  to  Bnggs,  his  father  made  no  show  of  artifice 
about  it.  He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numer- 
ous and  severe  were  the  mental  trials  of  that  unfortu- 
nate youth  in  vacation  time,  that  the  friends  of  the 
family  (then  resident  near  Bayswater,  London)  seldom 
approached  the  ornamental  piece  of  water  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  without  a  vague  expectation  of  seeing 
Master  Briggs's  hat  fioatincf  on  the  surface,  and  an  un- 
finished exercise  lying  on  the  bank,  Briggs,  therefore, 
was  not  at  all  sanguine  on  the  subject  of  nolidays;  and 
these  two  sharers  of  little  Paul's  bedroom  were  so  fair 
a  sample  of  the  young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the 
most  elastic  among  them  contemplated  the  arrival  of 
those  festive  periods  with  genteel  resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of 
these  first  holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from 
Florence,  but-  who  ever  looked  forward  to  the  end  of 
holidays  whose  beginning  was  not  yet  come!  Not  Paul, 
assuredly.  As  the  happy  time  drew  near,  the  lions  and 
tigers  climbing  up  the  bedroom  walls,  became  quite 
tame  and  frolicsome.  The  grim  sly  faces  in  the  squares 
and  diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth,  relaxed  and  peeped  out 
at  him  with  less  wicked  eyes.  The  grave  ola  clock  had 
more  of  personal  interest  in  the  tone  of  its  formal  in- 

auiry;  and  the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all  night,  to 
le  sounding  of  a  melancholy  strain — yet  it  was  pleas- 
ant too — that  rose  and  fell  with  the  waves,  and  rocked 
him,  as  it  were,  to  sleep. 

Mr,  Feeder,  B.A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a 
life  of  holidays  from  that  time  forth;  for,  as  iie  regu- 
larly informed  Paul  every  day,  it  was  his  "last  half" 
at  Doctor  Blimber's,  and  he  was  going  to  begvn  V)  cwaft 
into  his  property  directly. 


194  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr. 
Toots  that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding 
their  distance  in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the 
vacation  approached,  and  Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder 
and  stared  ofteuer  in  Paul's  society  than  he  had  done 
before,  Paul  knew  that  he  meant  he  wos  sorry  they 
were  going  to  lose  sight  of  each  other,  and  felt  very 
much  obliged  to  him  for  his  patronage  and  good 
opinion. 

It  waR  even  understood  by  Dr.  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber, 
and  Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young  gentlemen 
in  general,  that  Toots  had  somehow  constituted  himself 
protector  and  guardian  of  Dombey,  and  the  circum- 
stance became  so  notorious,  eveu  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that 
the  good  old  creature  cherished  feelings  of  bitterness 
and  jealousy  against  Toots;  and,  in  the  sanctuary  of 
her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced  him  as  ■'  a  chucltle- 
headed  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent  Toots  had  no 
more  idea  of  awakening  Mrs.  Pipchin's  ^yrath  than  be 
had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or  proposition.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  disposed  to  consider  her  rather  a 
remarkable  character,  with  many  points  of  interest 
about  her.  For  this  reason  he  smiled  on  her  with  so 
much  urbanity,  and  asked  her  how  she  did,  so  often,  in 
the  course  of  her  visits  to  little  Paul,  that  at  last  she 
one  night  told  him  plainly  she  wasn't  used  to  it,  what- 
ever he  might  think;  and  she  could  not,  and  she  would 
not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any  other  puppy  then 
existing:  at  which  unexpected  acknowledgment  of  his 
civilities,  Mr.  Toots  was  so  alarmed  that  he  secreted 
himself  in  a  retired  spot  until  she  had  gone.  Nor  did 
he  ever  again  face  the  doughty  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under 
Doctor  Blimber 's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays, 
when,  one  day,  Cornelia  Bliml>er  called  Paul  iuto  her 
room,  and  said,  "Dombey,  X  am  going  to  send  home 
your  analysis." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Paul. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  do  you,  Dombey?"  inquired 
^iss  Blimber,  looking  hard  at  him  through  the  spec- 
tacles. 

"No,  ma'am."  said  Paul. 

"Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "I  begin  to 
be  afraid  you  are  a  sad  boy.    When  you  don't  know  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  196 

meaning  of  an  expression,  why  don't  you  seek  for  in- 
formation?" 

"Mrs.  Pipehin  told  me  I  wasn't  to  ask  questions," 
returned  Paul. 

"I  must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipehin  to  me, 
on  any  account.  Dombey,"  returned  Mias  Blimber,  "I 
couldn't  think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here, 
is  very  far  removed  from  anything  of  that  sort.  A  repe- 
tition of  such  allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  me 
to  request  to  hear  without  a  mistake,  before  breakfast- 
time  to-morrow  morning,  from  Verbum  personale  down 
to  ftimillima  eygno." 

"  I  didn't  mean,  ma'am."  began  little  Paul. 

"I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't 
mean,  if  you  please,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  who 
preserved  an  awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions. 
"  That  is  a  line  of  argument  I  couldn't  dream  of  per- 
mitting." 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only 
looked  at  Miss  Blimber'a  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  hav- 
ing shaken  her  head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper 
lying  before  h^r. 

"  'Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  If  my 
recollection  serves  me,"  said  Miss  Blimber  breaking  off, 
"  the  word  analysis  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  de- 
fined by  Walker  '  The  resolution  oi  an  object,  whether 
of  the  senses  or  of  the  intellect,  into  its  first  elements.' 
As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you  observe.  Now  you  know 
what  analysis  is,  Dombey," 

Dombey  didn't  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the 
light  let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber 
a  little  bow. 

"  'Analysis.'"  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye 
overthepaper,  '"of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.  Iflnd 
that  the  natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely  good; 
and  that  his  general  disposition  to  study  may  be  stated 
in  an  equal  ratio.  Thus,  taking  eight  as  our  standard 
and  highest  number,  I  find  these  qualities  in  Dombey 
stated  each  at  six  three-fourths!'  " 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this 
news.  Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths, 
meant  six  pounds  fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings, 
or  six  foot  three,  or  three-quarters  past  s\x,  ot  ?,\3l  M«ftft- 
things  that  he  hafhj't  Jeamt  yet,  with  ttvre^  xmNfutj-v^-ft. 


196  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

something  elses  over,  Paul  nibbed  his  hands  and  looked 
straight  at  Miss  Bliniber.  It  happened  to  answer  as 
well  as  anything  else  he  could  have  done;  and  Cornelia 
proceeded. 

"  '  Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low 
company,  as  evinced  in  the  case  of  a  person  named 
Glubb,  originally  seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentle- 
manly demeanor  four,  and  improving  with  advancing 
years.'  Now  what  I  particularly  wish  to  call  your 
attention  to,  Dombey,  is  the  general  observation  at  the 
close  of  this  analysis." 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

"'It  may  he  generally  observed  of  Dombey,' "  said 
Miss  Blimber,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  every 
second  word  directing  ner  spectacles  towards  the  little 
figure  before  her:  "'that  his  abilities  and  inclinations 
are  good,  and  that  he  has  made  as  much  progress  as 
under  the  circumstances  could  have  been  expected. 
But  it  is  to  be  lamented  of  this  young  gentleman  that 
he  is  singular  (what  is  usually  termed  old-fashioned}  in 
his  character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without  presenting 
anything  in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  reproba- 
tion, he  is  often  very  unlike  other  young  gentlemen  of 
his  age  and  social  position.'  Now  Dombey,"  said  Miss 
Blimber,  laying  down  the  paper,  "do  you  understand 
that?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"This  aneilysis,  you  see,  Dombey,"  Miss  Blimber  con- 
tinued, "is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected 
parent.  It  will  naturally  he  very  painful  to  him  to  find 
that  you  are  singular  in  y  ur  character  aud  conduct.  It 
is  naturally  painful  to  us;  for  we  can't  like  you,  you 
know,  Dombey.  as  well  as  we  could  wish." 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a  tender  point.  He  had 
secretly  become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to 
day,  as  the  time  of  liis  departure  drew  more  near,  that 
all  the  house  should  like  him.  For  some  hidden  reason, 
very  imperfectly  understood  by  himself — if  understood 
at  all — he  felt  a  gradually  increasing  impulse  of  affec- 
tion towards  almost  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
place.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that  tliey  would  be 
quite  indifferent  to  him  when  he  was  gone.  He  wanted 
tnem  to  remember  him  kindly;  and  he  had  made  it  his 
business  even  to  conciliate  a  great  hoarse  shaggy  dog, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  107 

chained  up  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who  had  pre- 
viously been  the  terror  of  his  life:  that  even  he  might 
miss  him  when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this  ne  only  Bhowed  again  the 
difference  between  himself  and  his  compeers,  poor  tiny 
Paul  set  it  forth  to  Miss  Bllmber  as  well  as  lie  could, 
and  begged  her,  in  despite  of  the  official  analysis,  to 
have  the  goodness  to  try  and  like  him.  To  Mrs,  Blimber, 
who  had  joined  them,  he  preferred  the  same  petition: 
and  when  that  lady  could  not  forbear,  even  in  his 
presence,  from  giving  utterance  to  her  often-repeated 
opinion  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul  told  her  that  be 
vfas  sure  she  was  quite  right;  that  he  thought  it  must 
be  his  bones,  but  he  didn't  know;  and  that  he  hoped  she 
would  overlook  it,  for  he  was  fond  of  them  all. 

"  Not  so  fond,"  said  Paul,  with  a  mixture  of  timidity 
and  perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  and  most  engaging  qualities  of  the  child, 
"not  BO  fond  as  I  am  of  Florence,  of  course;  that  could 
never  be.  You  couldn't  expect  that,  could  you.  ma'am  'f " 

"Oh!  the  old-fashioned  little  soull"'  cried  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber, in  a  whisper. 

"  But  I  like  everybody  here  very  much,"  pursued 
Paul,  "  and  I  should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  that 
any  one  was  glad  that  I  was  gone,  or  didn't  care." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  now  quite  sure  that  Paul  was  the 
oddest  child  in  the  world:  and  when  she  told  the  doctor 
what  had  passed,  the  doctor  did  not  controvert  his 
wife's  opinion.  But  he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when 
Paul  first  came,  that  study  would  do  much;  and  he 
also  said,  as  he  had  said  on  tliat  occasion,  "  Bring 
}iim  on,  Cornelia!    Bring  him  on!  " 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously  as 
she  could;  and  Paul  bad  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  But  over 
and  above  the  getting  through  bis  ta^ky,  he  had  long 
had  another  purpose  always  preSent  to  him,  and  to 
which  he  still  neld  fast.  It  was,  to  be  a  gentle,  useful, 
quiet  little  fellow,  always  striving  to  secure  the  love 
and  attac)iment  of  the  rest;  and  tliough  he  was  yet 
often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the  stairs,  or  watch- 
ing the  waves  and  clouds  from  his  solitary  window,  he 
was  oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys,  modestly 
rendering  them  some  little  voluntary  service,  T\ias.  ■& 
came  to  pass,  that  even  among  those  T\g\4  axv.^  »X»- 


198  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sorbed  young  anchoriteB,  who  mortified  themselves 
beneath  the  roof-  of  Dr.  Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of 

f general  interest;  a  fragile  little  plaything  that  they  all 
iked,  and  that  no  one  would  have  thought  uf  treating 
roughly.  But  he  could  not  change  hie  nature,  or.  re- 
write the  analysis;  and  so  they  all  agreed  that  Dombey 
was  old-fashioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to 
the  character  enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  could  have 
better  spared  a  newer-fashioned  cjiild,  and  that  alone 
was  much.  When  the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor 
Blimber  and  family  on  retiring  for  the  night,  Paul 
would  Btretch  out  his  morsel  of  a  hand,  and  boldly 
shake  the  doctor's;  also  Mrs,  Blimber's;  also  Cornelia's. 
If  anybotly  was  to  be  begged  off  from  impending  pun- 
ishment, Paul  was  always  the  delegate.  The  weak- 
eyed  young  man  himself  had  once  consulted  him,  in 
reference  to  a  little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And 
it  was  darkly  rumored  that  the  butler,  regarding  him 
with  favor  such  as  that  stern  man  had  never  snown 
before  to  mortal  boy,  had  sometimes  mingled  porter 
with  his  table-beer  to  make  him  strong. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had 
free  right  of  entry  into  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  from  which 
apartment  he  had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air 
in  a  state  of  faintness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  smoke  a  very  blunt  cigar:  one  of  a  bundle 
which  that  young  gentleman  had  covertly  purchased 
on  the  shingle  from  a  most  desperate  smuggler,  who 
had  acknowledged,  in  confidence,  that  two  hundred 
pounds  was  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or  alive, 
by  the  Custom  House.  It  was  a  snug  room,  Mr.  Feed- 
er's, with  his  bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it;  and 
a  flute,  which  Mr.  Feeder  couldn't  pla^  yet,  but  was 
going  to  make  a  point  of  learning,  he  said,  hanging  up 
over  the  fireplace.  There  were  some  books  in  it,  too, 
and  a  fishing-rod;  for  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  cer- 
tainly make  a  point  of  learning  to  fish,  when  he  could 
find  time.  Mr.  Feeder  had  amassed,  with  similar  inten- 
tions, a  beautiful  little  curly  second-hand  key-bugle,  a 
chess-board  and  men.  a  Spanish  Grammar,  a  set  of 
sketching  materials,  and  a  pair  of  boxing-gloves.  The 
art  of  self-defence  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  undoubt- 
edly make  a  point  of  learning,  as  he  considered  it  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  li>0 

dutjf  of  every  man  to  do;  for  it  might  lead  to  the  pro- 
tection of  a  fem^e  in  distress. 

But  Mr,  Feeder's  great  possession  was  a  large  green 
jar  of  snuff,  which  Mr,  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a 
present,  at  the  olose  of  tlie  last  vacation;  and  for  which 
he  had  paid  a  high  price,  as  having  been  the  genuine 

Kroperty  of  the  Prince  Regent.  Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor 
ir.  Feeder  could  partake  of  this  or  any  t>ther  snuff, 
even  in  the  most  stinted  and  moderate  degree,  witlioiit 
being  seized  with  convulsions  of  sneezmg.  Never- 
theless it  was  their  great  delight  to  moisten  a  box-full 
with  cold  tea,  stir  it  up  on  a  piece  of  parchment  with  a 
paper-knife,  and  devote  themselves  to  its  consumption 
then  and  there.  In  the  course  of  which  cramming  of 
their  noses,  they  endured  surprising  torments  with  the 
constancy  of  martyrs:  and  drmking  table-beer  at  inter- 
vals, felt  all  the  glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by 
the  side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a 
dread  charm  in  these  reckless  occasions;  and  when  Mr. 
Feeder  spoke  of  the  dark  mysteries  of  Lomion,  and 
told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  observe  it  himself 
closely  in  all  its  ramifications  in  the  approaching  holi- 
days, and  for  that  purpose  had  made  arrangements  to 
board  with  two  old  maiden  ladies  at  Peckliam,  Paul 
regarded  him  as  if  he  wore  the  hero  of  some  book  of 
travels  or  wild  adventure,  and  was  almost  afraid  of 
such  a  slashine  person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidays 
were  very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  the 
blanks  in  some  printed  letters,  while  some  others,  al- 
ready filled  up  and  strewn  before  him,  were  beting 
folded  and  sealed  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Feeder  said,  *'  Aha, 
Dombey,  there  you  are.  are  you?" — for  they  were  al- 
ways kmd  to  him,  and  glad  to  see  him— and  then  said, 
tossing  one  of  the  letters  towards  him,  "  And  there  you 
are,  too,  Dombey.    That's  yours." 

"  Mine,  sir?  "  said  Paul, 

"  Your  invitation,"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

Paul,  looking  at  it,  found,  in  copper-plate  print,  with 
the  exception  of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which 
were  in  Mr.  Feeder's  penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  requested  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  V.  "iiCitriVna'j" «. 
comjiany  at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday  evfewra^  xS^'i 


201)  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

i>i.;veDteenth  instant;  and  that  the  hour  was  half-past 
seven  o'clock;  and  that  the  object  was  quadrilles.  Mr. 
Toots  also  showed  him,  by  holding  up  a  companion 
sheet  of  paper,  that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the 
pleasure  of  Mr.  Toots's  company  at  an  early  party  on 
Wednesday  evening  the  seventeenth  instant,  when  the 
hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object 
was  quadrilles.  He  also  found,  on  glancing  at  the  table 
where  Mr.  Feeder  sat,  that  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Briggs'.'i 
company,  and  of  Jlr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of  ever>' 
young  gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr,  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his 
sister  was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a  half-yearly  event, 
and  that,  as  the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go 
away  with  his  sister  after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which 
Paul  interrupted  him  to  say  he  tcow/d  like,  very  much. 
Mr.  Feeder  then  gave  him  to  imderstand  that  he  would 
be  expected  to  mform  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  in 
superfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P.  Domboy  would  be 
happy  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  on  them,  in  accord- 
ance with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr.  Feeder 
said,  he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion,  in 
the  hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber;  as  these  pre- 
liminaries, and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were 
conducted  on  principles  of  classicality  and  high  breed- 
ing; and  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  on  the  other,  were  supposed, 
in  their  scholastic  capacities,  not  to  have  the  least  idea 
of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocket- 
ing his  invitation,  sat  dovm  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of 
Mr.  Toots  as  usual.  But  Paul's  head,  which  had  long 
been  ailing  more  or  less,  and  was  sometimes  very  heavy 
and  painnil,  folt  so  uneasy  that  night,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  support  it  on  his  hand.  And  yet  it  drooped 
so,  that  by  little  and  little  it  sunk  on  Mr.  Toots's  knee, 
and  rested  there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to  be  ever  lifted  up 
again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf;  but  he 
must  have  been,  he  tbougnt,  for,  by  and  by,  he  heard 
Mr.  Fee<ler  calling  in  his  ear,  and  gently  snaking  him 
to  rouse  his  attention.  And  when  he  raised  his  head, 
quite  scared,  and  looked  about  him,  he  found  that  Doc- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  201 

tor  Blimber  had  come  into  the  room;  and  that  the  win- 
dow was  open,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet  with 
sprinkled  water;  though  how  all  this  had  been  done 
without  his  knowledge,  was  very  curious  indeed. 

•'  Ah!  come,  come!  That's  well!  How  is  my  little 
friend  now?"  said  Dr.  Blimber,  encouragingly. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with 
the  floor,  for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily;  and 
with  the  walls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round 
and  round,  and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked 
at  very  hard  indeed.  Mr.  Toots's  nead  had  the  appear- 
ance of  being  at  once  bigger  and  farther  off  than  was 
quite  natural;  and  when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to 
carry  him  up-stairs,  Paul  observed  with  astonishment 
that  the  door  was  in  quite  a  different  place  from  that  in 
which  he  bad  expected  to  And  it,  and  almost  thought, 
at  first,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  going  to  walk  straight  up 
the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  carry  him  to  the  top 
of  the  house  so  tenderly;  and  Paul  told  nim  that  it  was. 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  he  would  do  a  great  deal  more  than 
that,  if  he  could;  and  indeed  he  did  more  as  it  was:  for 
he  helped  Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to  bed,  in 
the  kindest  manner  possible,  and  tnen  sat  down  by 
the  bedside  and  chuctled  very  much;  while  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.A.,  leaning  over  the  bottom  of  the  bedstead,  set  all 
the  little  bristlea  on  his  head  bolt  upright  with  his  bony 
hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar  at  Paul  with  great 
science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right  again,  which 
was  so  uncommonly  facetious,  and  kind  too  in  Mr, 
Feeder,  that  Paul,  not  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
whether  it  was  best  to  laugh  or  cry  at  him,  did  both  at 
once. 

How  Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  Mr.  Feeder  changed 
into  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking;  neither 
was  be  at  all  curious  to  know;  but  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Pipchin  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  instead  of 
Mr.  Feeder,  he  cried  out,  "  Mrs.  Pipchin,  don't  tell  Flor- 
ence! " 

"  Don't  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul? '"said  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  coming  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting  down 
in  the  chair. 

"  About  me,"  .said  Paul. 


202  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchio. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  when  I  grow  np, 
Mrs,  Pipchin?"  inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  towardfl 
her  on  his  pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his 
folded  hands. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  couldn't  guess. 

" I  mean,"  said  Paul,  "to  put  my  money  all  together 
in  one  Bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into 
the  country  with  my  darling  Florence,  have  a  beautiful 
garden,  fields,  and  woods,  and  live  there  with  her  all 
my  life!" 

"Indeed!"  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin, 

"Yes,"  said  Paul.  "That's  what  I  mean  to  do,  when 
I — "  He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  grey  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

"If  I 'grow  up,'"  said  Paul.  Then  he  went  on  imme- 
diately to  tell  Mrs.  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about 
Florence's  invitation,  about  the  pride  he  would  have  in 
the  admiration  that  would  be  felt  for  her  bv  all  the 
boys,  about  their  being  so  kind  to  him  and  fond  of  him, 
about  his  being  so  fond  of  them,  and  about  his  being  so 
glad  of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs.  Pipchin  about  the  anal- 
ysis, and  about  his  being  certainly  old-fashioned,  and 
took  Mrs.  Pipchin's  opinion  on  that  point,  and  whether 
she  knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant.  Mrs.  Pipchin 
denied  the  fact  altogether,  as  the  shortest  way  of  get- 
ting out  of  the  difficulty;  but  Paul  was  far  from  satisfied 
with  that  reply,  and  looked  so  searchinely  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin for  a  truer  answer  that  she  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  look  out  of  the  window  to  avoid  his  eves. 

There  was  a  cei'tain  calm  apothecary,  wtio  attended  at 
the  establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  were 
ill,  and  someliow  he  got  into  the  room  and  appeared  at 
the  bedside,  with  Mrs.  Blimber,  How  they  came  there, 
or  how  long  they  had  been  there,  Paul  didn't  know;  but 
when  he  saw  them,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and. answered  all 
the  apothecary's  questions  at  full  length,  and  whispered 
to  him  that  Florence  was  not  to  know  anything  about 
it  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he  had  set  his  mmd  upon  her 
coming  to  the  party.  He  was  very  chatty  with  the 
apothecary,  and  they  parted  excellent  friends.  Lying 
down  agam  with  liis  eyes  shut,  he  heard  the  apothecary 
say,  out  of  (lie  room  and  quite  a  long  way  off — or  he 
dreamed  it— that  there  w;ik  a  want  of  vital  power  (what 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  203 

was  that,  Paul  wondered!)  and  great  constitutional 
weakness.  Tjjat  as  the  little  fellow  had  set  his  heart  on 
parting  with  his  schoolmates  on  the  seventeenth,  it 
would  DC  better  to  indulge  the  fancy  if  he  grew  no 
worse.  That  he  was  glad  to  hear,  from  Mrs.  ripchin, 
that  the  little  fellow  would  go  to  his  friends  in  London 
on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would  write  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
when  he  should  have  gained  a  better  knowledge  of  the 
case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was  no  imme- 
diate cause  for — what?  Paul  lost  that  word.  And  that 
the  little  fellow  had  a  fine  miud,  but  was  an  old-fash- 
ioned boy. 

What  old-faahion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered  with 
a  palpitating  heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in 
him;  BO  plainly  seen  by  so  many  people! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  himself  long 
with  the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  if 
she  had  ever  been  away{he  thought  she  had  gone  out 
with  the  doctor,  but  it  was  all  a  dream  perhaps),  and 
presently  a  bottle  and  glass  gQt  into  her  bands  magic- 
ally, iind  she  poured  out  the  contents  for  him.  After 
that,  he  had  some  real  good  jelly,  which  Mrs,  Blimber 
broi^^t  to  him  herself;  and  then  he  was  so  well  that 
Mrs.  Pipchin  went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicitation,  and 
BriOTs  and  Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs  grumbled 
tembly  about  his  own  analysis,  which  could  hardly 
have  aiscomposed  him  more  if  it  had  been  a  chemical 
irocess:  but  he  was  very  good  to  Paul,  and  so  was 
'ozer,  and  so  were  all  the  rest,  for  they  every  onelooked 
in  before  going  to  bed,  and  said,  "  How  are  you  now, 
Dombey?'"  "Cheer  up,  little  Dombey!"  and  so  forth. 
After  Briggs  had  ^ot  into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  a  long 
time,  still  bemoaning  his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew 
it  was  all  wrong,  and  they  couldn't  have  analysed  a 
murderer  worse,  and  how  would  Doctor  Blimber  like  it 
if  his  pocket-jnoney  depended  on  it?  It  was  very  vasy, 
Briggs  said,  to  make  a  galley-slave  of  a  boy  all  the  half- 
year,  and  then  score  him  up  idle;  and  to  crib  two  din- 
ners a-week  out  of  his  board,  and  then  score  him  up 
f [reedy:  but  that  wasn't  going  to  he  submitted  to,  he  be- 
leved,  was  it?  Oh!  Ah! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the 
ffong  next  morning,  ne  came  up-stairs  toTa-wX  a."t\iV  \«A4. 
nim  he  was  to  lie  still,  wliich  Paul  ■vevy  (HOAX'S  ^\^- 


T( 


204  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  re-appeared  a  little  before  the  apothecary, 
and  a  little  after  the  good  young  woman  \^om  Paul  had 
Been  cleaning  the  stove  on  that  first  morning  (how  long 
ago  it  seemed  now!)  had  brought  him  hie  breakfast 
There  was  another  consultation  a  long  way  off,  or  else 
Paul  dreamed  it  again;  and  then  the  apothecary,  com- 
ing hack  with  Doctor  and  Mrs  Biimber.  said: 

"  Yes,  I  think,  Doctor  Biimber,  we  may  release  this 
young  gentleman  from  his  books  just  now;  the  vacation 
oeing  so  very  near  at  hand." 

"  By  all  means," said  Docter  Biimber.  "My love, you 
will  inform  Cornelia,  if  you  jilease." 

"Assuredly,"  said  Mrs.  Biimber. 

The  apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into 
Paul's  eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his 
heart,  with  so  much  interest  and  care,  that  Paul  said, 
"Thank  you,  sir." 

"  Our  little  friend,"  observed  Doctor  Biimber,  "  has 
never  complained." 

"Oh  no!"  replied  the  apothecary,  "He  was  not 
likely  to  complam," 

"  You  find  him  greatly  better?"  said  Doctor  Biimber. 

"Oh!  He  is  greatly  better,  sir,"  returned  the  apothe- 
cary. 

Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on 
the  subiect  that  might  occupy  the  apothecary's  mind 
just  at  tnat  moment;  so  musingly  had  he  answered  the 
two  questions  of  Doctor  Biimber.  But  the  apothecary 
happening  to  meet  his  little  patient's  eyes,  as  the  latter 
set  off  on  that  mental  expedition,  and  coming  instantly 
out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  cheerful  smile,  Paul 
smiled  in  return  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and 
looking  at  Mr.  Toots;  hut  gat  up  on  the  next,  and  went 
down-stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  the  great  clock;  and  a  workman  on  a  pair 
of  steps  had  taken  its  face  off.  and  was  poking  instru- 
ments into  the  works  by  the  light  of  a  candle!  This  was 
a  great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat  down  on  the  bottom 
stair,  and  watched  the  operation  attentively:  now  and 
then  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all  askew, 
against  the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a  little  confused 
by  a  suspicion  that  it  was  ogling  him. 

The  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil;  and  as  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  *)6 

said,  when  he  observed  Paul,  "How  do  you  do,  sir?" 
Paul  got  into  conversation  with  him,  and  told  him  he 
hadn't  been  quite  well  lately.  The  ice  being  thus  broken, 
Paul  asked  him  a  multitude  of  questions  about  chimes 
and  clocks:  as,  whether  people  watched  up  in  the  lonely 
church  steeples  by  night  to  make  them  strike,  and  how 
the  bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and  whether  those 
were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells,  or  only  sounded 
dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living.  Finding  that  his 
new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well  informed  on  the 
subject  of  the  curfew  hell  of  ancient  days,  Paul  gave 
him  an  account  of  that  institution;  and  also  asked  mm 
as  a  practical  man,  what  he  thought  about  King  Alfred's 
idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  burning  of  candles;  to 
which  the  workman  replied,  that  he  thought  it  would 
be  the  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come  up  again. 
In  fine,  Paul  looked  on,  until  the  clock  bad  quite  re- 
covered its  familiar  aspect,  and  resumed  its  sedate  in- 
quiry; when  the  workman,  putting  away  his  tools  in  a 
long  basket,  bade  him  good  day,  and  went  away. 
Though  not  before  he  haawhispered  something,  on  the 
door-mat,  to  the  footman,  in  which  there  was  the  phrase 
"  old-fashioned  " — for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  make 
the  people  sorry!  What  could  it  be! 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now  he  thought  of  this  fre- 
quently; though  not  so  often  as  he  might  have  done,  if 
he  had  had  fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a 
great  many;  and  was  always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

First,  there  was  Florence  coining  to  tne  party. 
Florence  would  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him;  and 
that  would  make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme. 
Let  Florence  once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and 
good  to  him,  and  that  he  had  become  a  little  favorite 
among  them,  and  then  she  would  always  think  of  the 
time  he  had  passed  there,  without  being  very  sorry. 
Florence  might  he  all  the  happier  too  for  that,  perhaps, 
w^hen  he  came  back.  - 

When  he  came  back!  Fifty  times  a-day,  his  noiseless 
little  feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he 
collected  every  book,  and  scrap,  and  trifle  that  belonged 
to  him,  and  put  them  all  together  there,  down  to  tlve. 
minutest  thing,  for  taking  home'.  There  vjaa  ivo  ^aAft 
of  coming-  hack  on  little  faui;  no  preparatVoii  lot  "'^i  "^"s 


206  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

other  reference  to  it,  grew  out  of  anything  he  thoughtor 
did,  except  this  slight  one  in  connexion  with  his  Bister. 
On  the  contrary,  he  iiad  to  think  of  everything  familiar  to 
him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and  in  his  wanderings 
about  the  house,  as  having  to  be  parted  with;  and  hence 
the  many  things  he  had  to  think  of,  all  day  long. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooiUB  up-stairs,  and  think 
how  solitary  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone,  and 
wonder  through  how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months, 
and  years,  they  would  continue  just  as  grave  and  undis- 
turbed. He  had  to  think — would  any  other  child  {old- 
fashioned,  like  himself)  stray  there  at  any  time,  to 
whom  the  same  grotesque  distortions  of  pattern  and 
furniture  would  manifest  themselves;  and  would  any- 
body tell  that  boy  of  little  Dombey,  who  had  been  there 
once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a  portrait  on  the  stairs,  which  al- 
ways looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away,  eye- 
ing it  over  his  shoulder;  and  which,  when  he  passed  it 
in  the  company  of  any  one,  still  seemed  to  gaze  at  him, 
and  not  at  his  companion.  He  had  much  to  think  of, 
in  iissociation  with  a  print  that  hung  up  in  another 
place,  where,  in  the  centre  of  a  wondering  group,  one 
figure  that  he  knew,  a  figure  with  a  light  about  its  head 
—benignant,  mild,  and  merciful — stood  pointing  up- 
ward. 

At  his  own  bedroom  window  there  were  crowds  of 
thoughts  that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  upon 
another,  one  upon  another,  like  the  rolling  waves. 
Where  those  wild  birds  lived,  that  were  always  hover- 
ing out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather;  where  tne  clouds 
rose,  and  first  began;  whence  the  wind  issued  on  its 
rushing  flight,  and  where  it  stopped;  whether  the  spot 
where  lie  and  Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched, 
and  talked  about  these  things,  could  ever  be  exactly  as 
it  used  to  be  without  them;  whether  itcould  ever  be  the 
same  to  Florence,  if  he  were  in  some  distant  place,  and 
she  were  sitting  there  alone. 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.  A.;  of  all  the  hoys;  and  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt 
and  Miss  Tox;  of  his  father,  Dombey  ajid  Son,  Walter 
with  the  poor  old  uncle  who  had  got  the  money  he 
wanted,  and  that  grufE-voiccd  captain  with  the  iron 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  207 

hand.  Besides  all  this,  he  had  a  number  of  little  visits 
to  p^i  in  the  course  of  the  day;  to  the  school-room,  to 
Dr.  Blimber's  study,  to  Mrs.  Blimber's  private  apart- 
ment, to  Miss  Blimber's,  and  to  the  dog.  For  he  was 
free  of  the  whole  house  now,  to  ranee  it  as  he  chose; 
tmd,  in  his  desire  to  part  with  everybody  on  affectionate 
terms,  he  attended,  m  his  way,  to  them  all.  Sometimes 
he  found  places  in  books  for  Briggs,  who  was  always 
losing  them;  sometimes  he  looked  up  words  in  diction- 
aries for  other  young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extremity; 
sometimes  he  held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to 
wind:  sometimes  he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights;  some- 
times he  would  even  creep  into  the  doctor's  study,  and, 
Kitting  on  the  carpet  near  liis  learned  feet,  turn  the 
globes  softly,  and  go  round  the  world,  or  take  a  flight 
among  the  far-off  stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  in 
short,  when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  laboring 
for  dear  life  through  a  general  resumption  of  the  studies 
of  the  whole  half-year,  Paul  was  such  a  privileged  pupil 
as  had  never  been  seen  in  that  house  before.  He  could 
hardly  beheve  it  himself;  but  his  liberty  lasted  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  from  day  to  day;  and  little  Dombey 
was  caressed  bj^  every  one.  Doctor  Blimber  was  so  par- 
ticular about  him,  tliat  he  requested  Johnson  to  retire 
from  the  dinner-table  one  day.  for  having  thoughtlessly 
spoken  to  him  as  "poor  little  Dombey;"  which  Paul 
thought  rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had  flushed 
at  the  moment,  and  wondered  why  Johnson  should  pity 
him.  It  was  the  more  questionable  justice,  Paul 
thought,  in  the  doctor,  from  his  having  certainly  over- 
heard that  great  authority  give  his  assent  on  the  pre- 
vious evening,  to  the  proposition  (stated  by  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber) that  poor  dear  little  Dombey  wjis  more  old-fashioned 
than  ever.  And  npw  it  was  that  Paul  began  to  think  it 
must  surely  be  old-fashioned  to.be  very  thin,  and  hght, 
and  easily  tired,  and  soon  disposed  to  lie  down  anywhere 
and  rest;  for  he  couldn't  help  feeling  that  these  were 
more  and  more  his  habits  every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived;  and  Doctor  Blimber 
said  at  breakfast.  "Gfentleman,  we  will  resume  our 
studies  on  the  twenty-flfth  of  next  month."  Mr,  Toota 
immediately  threw  off  his  allegiance,  and  v^^V  oxv  Vw> 
ring:  and  mentioning  the  doctor  in  casua\  con.xeTaa.*C\»AT^ 


ii08  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

shortly  afterwards,  spoke  of  him  as  "Blimber!"  This 
act  of  freedom  inspired  the  older  pupils  with  admiration 
and  envy;  but  the  younger  spirits  were  appalled,  and 
seemed  to  marvel  that  no  beam  fell  down  and  crushed 
him. 

Not  the  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies  of 
the  evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner;  but  there 
was  a  bustle  in  the  house  all  day  and,  in  the  course  of 
hie  perambulations,  Paul  made  acquaintance  with  vari- 
ous strange  benches  and  candlesticks,  and  met  a  harp 
in  a  ^een  great-coat  standing  on  the  landing  outside  the 
drawing-room  door.  There  was  something  queer,  too, 
about  Mrs.  Blimber's  head  at  dinner-time,  as  if  she  had 
screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight;  and  though  Miss  BHmber 
showed  a  graceful  bunch  of  plaited  hair  on  each  temple, 
she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little  curls  in  paper  unaer- 
neath,  and  in  a  playbill  too;  for  Paul  read  "Theatre 
Royal"  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spectacles,  and 
"  Brighton  "  over  the  other. 

There  was  a  grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and 
cravats  in  the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening 
approached;  and  such  a  smell  of  singed  hair  that  Doctor 
Blimber  sent  up  the  footman  with  his  compliments,  and 
wished  to  know  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  But  it  was 
only  the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young  gentlemen,  and 
overheating  his  tongs  in  the  ardor  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed — which  was  very  soon  done, 
for  he  felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to  stand 
about  it  very  long — he  went  down  into  the  drawing-room; 
where  he  found  Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room  full  dressed,  but  with  a  dignified  and  uncon- 
cerned demeanor,  as  if  he  thought  it  barely  possible 
that  one  or  two  people  might  drop  in  by  and  by. 
Shortly  afterwards,  Mrs,  Blimber  appeared,  looking 
lovely,  Paul  thought;  and  attired  in  such  a  number  of 
skirts  that  it  was  quite  an  excursion"  to  walk  round  her. 
Miss  Blimber  came  down  soon  after  her  mama;  a  little 
squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charming, 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals. 
Each  of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as 
if  he  lived  somewhere  else;  and  when  they  were  an- 
nounced by  the  butler,  Doctor  Blimber  said.  "Aye,  aye, 
aye!  Glod  bless  my  soul!"  and  seemed  extremely  glad 
to  see  them.     Mr.  Toots  was  one  blaze  of  jewellery  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  SOO 

and  buttons;  and  he  felt  the  circumstance  so  strongly, 
that  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  doctor,  and 
had  bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber,  he  took 
Paul  aside,  and  said,  "What  do  you  think  of  this, 
Dombeyl" 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  him- 
self, Mr.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a  ^ood  deal  of 
uncertainty  whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to 
button  the  bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether, 
on  a  calm  revision  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was  best 
to  wear  his  wristbands  turned  up  or  turned  down.  Ob- 
serving that  Mr,  Feeder's  were  turned  up,  Mr.  Toots  . 
tumea  his  up;  but  the  wristbands  of  the  next  arrival 
being  tumea  down,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  down.  The 
differences  in  point  of  waistcoat-buttouing,  not  only  at 
the  bottom,  but  at  the  top  too,  became  so  numerous  and 
complicated  as  the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  continually  fingering  that  article  of  dress,  as  if  he 
were  performing  on  some  instrument;  and  appeared  to 
find  the  incessant  execution  it  demanded,  quite  bewil- 
dering. 

All  the  young  gentlemen  tightly  cravatted,  curled, 
and  pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands, 
having  been  at  different  times  announced  and  intro- 
duced, Mr.  Baps,  the  dancing-master,  came,  accompa- 
nied by  Mrs.  Bapa,  to  whom  Mrs.  Blimber  was  extremely 
kiud  and  condescending.  Mr.  Baps  was  a  very  grave 
gentleman,  with  a  slow  and  measured  manner  of  speak- 
mg;  and  before  he  had  stood  under  the  lamp  five  min- 
utes, he  began  to  talk  to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently 
comparing  pumps  with  him)  about  what  you  were  to  do 
with  your  raw  materials  when  they  came  into  your  ports 
in  return  for  your  drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom 
the  question  seemed  perplexmg,  suggested  "  Cook  'em." 
But  Mr.  Baps  did  not  appear  to  think  that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  comer  of 
a  sofa,  which  had  been  his  post  of  observation,  and 
went  down-stairs  into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready  for  Flor- 
ence, whom  he  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  as 
he  had  remained  at  Doctor  Blimber's  on  one  previous 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  lest  he  should  take  cold.  Pres- 
ently she  came:  looking  so  beautiful  in  her  simple  b&VV 
dress,  with  her  fresh  flowers  in  her  hani\,t\ia\.v)\ie'n.^© 
knelt  down  on  the  ground  to  tiike  Paul  round  ^A\e  ii*;^-V 


210  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  kiss  him  (for  there  was  no  one  there  but  his  friend 
and  another  young  woman  waiting  to  serve  out  the  tea), 
he  could  hardly  make  up  hia  mina  to  let  her  go  asain, 
or  take  away  her  bright  and  loving  eyes  from  his  (ace 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy?  asked  Paul,  almost 
sure  that  he  saw  a  tear  there, 

"Nothing,  darling,  nothing,"  returned  Florence, 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  his  finger— and 
it  was  a  tearl    "  Why,  Floy! "  said  he. 

"  We'll  go  home  together,  and  I'll  nurse  you,  love," 
said  Florence. 

"Nurse  me! "  echoed  Paul. 

Paul  couldn't  understand  what  that  had  to  do  with  it, 
nor  why  the  two  young  women  looked  on  so  seriouely. 
nor  why  Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

"  Floy,"  said  Paul,  holding  a  ringlet  of  her  dark  hair 
in  his  hand.  "  Tell  me,  dear.  Do  you  think  I  have 
grown  old-fashioned?  " 

His  sister  laughed,  and  fondled  him.  and  told  him 
"  No." 

"  Because  I  know  they  say  so,"  returned  Paul,  "  and 
I  want  to  know  what  they  mean,  Floy." 

But  a  loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and 
Florence  hurrying  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said 
between  them.  Paul  wondered  again  when  he  saw  his 
friend  whisper  to  Florence,  as  if  she  were  comfort- 
ing her;  but  a  new  arrival  put  that  out  of  his  head 
speedily. 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Ladv  Skettlea  and  Hastei 
Skettles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a  new  boy  after  the 
vacation,  and  Fame  had  been  biiKV,  in  Mr.  Feeder's  room, 
with  his  father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  of  whom  Mr.  Feeder  had  said  that  when  he  did 
catch  the  Speaker's  eye  (which  he  had  been  expected  to 
do  for  three  or  four  years),  it  was  anticipated  that  he 
would  rather  touch  up  the  Radicals. 

"And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance?"  said 
Lady  Skettles  to  Paul's  friend,  'Melia, 

"  Doctor  Blimlwr's  study,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a  panoramic  survey  of  it  tJirough 
her  glass,  and  said  to  sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a  nod 
of  approval,  "  Very  good."  Sir  Barnet  assent^'d,  but 
Master  Skettles  looked  sus[>icious  and  doubtful. 


DOMBEY  AND  HON.  211 

"  And  this  little  creature,  now,"  eaid  Lady  Skettles, 
turning  to  Paul.     "Is  he  one  of  the — " 

"  Young  gentlemen,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Paul's 
friend. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child? "  said  Lady 
Skettles. 

"  Dorobey,"  answered  Paul 

Hir  Bamet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said 
that  he  had  hfid  the  honor  of  meeting  Paul's  father  at  a 

fublic  dinner,  and  that  he  hoped  ne  was  very  well, 
hen  Paul  heard  him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  "City — very 
rich— most  respectable — doctor  mentioned  it.  And 
then  he  said  to  Paul,  "Will  you  tell  your  good  papa 
that  Sir  Bamet  Skettles  rejoiced  to  hear  that  he  was 
very  well,  and  sent  him  his  best  compliments:"' 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Paul. 

'•  That  is  my  brave  boy,"  said  Sir  Bamet  Skettles. 
"  Bamet,"  to  Master  Skettles,  who  was  revenging  him- 
self for  the  studies  to  come,  on  the  plum-cake,  "this  is 
a  young  gentleman  you  ought  to  know.  Tiiis  is  a  young 
gentleman  you  may  kuow.  Bamet,"  said  Sir  Bamet 
Skettles,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  permission. 

"  What  eyes!  What  hair!  What  a  lovely  face!"  ex- 
claimed Lady  Skettles  softly,  as  she  looked  at  Florence 
through  her  glass. 

'■  My  sister,"  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete. 
And  as  Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a 
liking  for  Paul,  they  all  went  up-stairs  together;  Sir 
Bamet  Skettles  taking  care  of  Florence,  and  young 
Bamet  following. 

Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  back^oimd 
after  they  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctoi- 
Blimber  had  him  out  in  no  time,  dancing  with  Florence. 
He  did  not  appear  to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or 
particularly  anything  but  sulky,  or  to  care  mucii  what 
lie  was  about;  but  as  Paul  heard  Lady  Skettles  say  to 
Mrs,  Blimber,  while  she  beat  time  with  her  fan,  that 
her  dear  boy  was  evidently  smitten  to  death  by  that 
angel  of  a  child.  Miss  Dombey,  it  would  seem  that  Sket- 
tles junior  was  in  a  state  of  bliss  without  showing  it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a  singular  coincidence  tliaX.  ivo- 
body  had  occupied  his  place  among  the  piWonna-,  a.uA, 
that  when  be  came  into  the  room  again,  they  6\vo>j\d.  ai!)^ 


8ia  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

make  way  for  him  to  go  back  to  it,  remembering  it  was 
his.  Nobody  stood  before  him  either,  when  tney  ob- 
served that  he  liked  to  see  Florence  dancing,  but  the"f 
left  the  space  in  front  quite  clear,  so  that  he  might  fol- 
low her  with  his  eyes.  They  were  so  kind,  too,  even  the 
strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a  great  many,  that 
they  came  and  spoke  to  him  every  now  and  thfen,  and 
asked  iiim  how  he  was,  and  if  nis  head  ached,  and 
whether  he  was  tired.  He  was  very  much  obliged  to 
them  for  all  their  kindness  and  attention,  and  recliniDg 
propped  up  in  his  corner,  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Lady 
Skeltles  on  the  same  sofa,  and  Florence  coming  and  si^ 
ting  by  his  side  as  soon  as  every  dance  was  ended,  he 
looked  on  very  happily  indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would 
not  have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  out  Paul  made 
her,  by  telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  bim.  And  he 
told  her  the  truth,  too;  for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and 
his  face  glowed,  when  he  saw^  how  much  they  all  ad- 
mired her,  and  how  she  was  the  beautiful  little  rosebud 
of  the  room. 

From  bis  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and 
hear  almost  everything  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole  were 
being  done  for  his  amusement.  Amone  other  little  in- 
cidents that  he  observed,  he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the 
dancing-master  get  into  conversation  with  Sir  Bamet 
Skettles,  and  very  soon  ask  him,  as  he  had  asked  Mr. 
Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  materials, 
when  they  came  into  yourports  in  return  for  your  drain 
of  gold — which  was  such  a  mystery  to  Paul  that  he  was 
quite  desirous  to  knowwhat  ought  to  be  done  with  them. 
Sir  Barnet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon  the  question, 
and  said  it;  but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve  the  question, 
for  Mr.  Baps  retorted.  Yes,  but  supposing  Russia  stepped 
in  with  her  tallows;  which  struck  Sir  Barnet  almost 
dumb,  for  he  could  only  shake  his  head  after  that,  and 
say,  why  then  you  must  fall  back  upon  your  cottons,  he 
supposed. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  looked,  after  Mr.  Baps  "when  he 
went  to  cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted, 
was  pretending  to  look  over  the  music-book  of  the  gen- 
tleman who  played  the  harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a  re- 
markable kind  of  man;  and  shortly  afterwards  he  said 
so  in  those  words  to  Doctor  Blimber,  and  inquired  if  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21J 

miffht  take  the  liberty  of  asking  who  he  was,  and  whether 
henad  ever  been  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Doctor  Blimber 
answered  no,  he  believed  not;  and  that  in  fact  he  was 
a  professor  of — 

"  Of  something  connected  with  statistics,  I'll  swear?" 
observed  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"  Why  no,  Sir  Barnet,"  replied  Doctor  Blimber,  rub- 
binghis  chin.     "  No,  not  exactly," 

"Figures  of  some  sort  I  would  venture  a  bet,"  said 
Sir  Barnet  Skettles, 

"Why  yes,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "yes,  but  not  of 
that  sort.  Mr.  Baps  is  a  very  worthy  sort  of  man,  Sir 
Barnet  and — in  fact  he's  our  professor  of  dancing." 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information 
quite  altered  Sir  Barnet  Skettles'  opinion  of  Mr.  Baps, 
and  that  Sir  Barnet  flew  into  a  perfect  rage,  and  glow- 
ered at  Mr.  Baps  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  d  Mr.  Baps  to  Lady  Skettles, 
in  telling  her  what  had  happened,  and  to  sav  that  it  was 
like  his  most  con-sum-mate  and  con-f  oun-dea  impudence. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr, 
Feeder,  after  imbibing  several  custard-cups  of  negus, 
began  to  enjoy  himself.  The  dancing  in  general  was 
ceremonious,  and  the  music  rather  solemn — a  little  like 
church  music  in  fact:  but  after  the  custard-cups,  Mr. 
Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  throw  a  little 
spirit  into  the  thine.  After  that,  Mr.  Feeder  not  only 
began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  dancing  and  nothing  else, 
but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to  perform  wild  tunes. 
Further,  he  became  particular  in  his  attentions  to  the 
ladies;  and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber,  whispered  to  her 
— whispered  to  her! — though  not  so  softly  but  that 
Paul  heard  him  say  this  remarkable  poetry, 


This,  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladies  in  suc- 
cession. Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr,  Toots,  that 
he  was  afraid  he  should  be  the  worse  for  it  to-morrow! 
Mrs.  Blimber  was  a  little  alarmed  by  this — compara- 
tively speaking— profligate  behavior;  and  especiaVt^j  \sy 
the  alteration  m  the  character  of  the  music,  ■w\v\(^,\«- 
gianinic  to  comprehend  low  melodies  that  vfete  popiAa.t 


31i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in  the  streets,  might  not  unnaturally  be  supposed  to  give 
offence  to  Lady  Skettles^  But  Lady  Skettles  was  so 
very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Blimber  not  to  mention  it;  and 
to  receive  her  explanation,  that  Mr,  Feeder's  spirits 
sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on  these  occasions, 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness;  observing, 
that  he  seemed  a  very  nice  sort  of  person  for  his  situ- 
ation, and  that  she  particularly  liked  the  unassuming 
style  of  his  hair — which  (as  already  hinted)  was  about 
a  quarter  of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  thefe  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing,  Lady 
Skettles  told  Paul  that  he  seemed  very  fond  of  music. 
Paul  replied,  that  he  was;  and  if  she  was,  too,  she  ought 
to  hear  his  sister  Florence  sing.  Lady  Skettles  pres- 
ently discovered  that  she  was  dying  with  anxiety  to 
have  that  gratification;  and  though  Florence  was  at 
first  very  much  frightened  at  being  asked  to  sing  before 
so  many  people,  and  begged  earnestly  to  be  excused, 
yet,  on  Paul  calling  her  to  him,  and  saying,  '"Do,  Floy! 
Fleasel  For  me,  my  dearl"  she  went  straight  to  the 
piano,  and  began.  When  they  all  drew  a  little  away, 
that  Paul  might  see  her;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  alone,  so  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  and 
kind  to  him;  and  heard  her  thrilling  voice,  so  natural 
and  sweet,  and  such  a  golden  link  between  him  and  all 
his  life's  love  and  happmess,  rising  out  of  the  silence;  he 
turned  his  face  away,  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told 
them  when  they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music  was 
too  plaintive  or  too  sorrowful,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florencel  How  could  they  help  it! 
Paul  had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  would; 
and  sitting  in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  ralmly  folded 
hands,  and  one  leg  loosely  doubled  under  him,  few 
would  have  thought  what  triumph  and  delight  ex- 
panded his  childish  bosom  while  he  watched  her,  or 
what  a  sweet  tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish  encomiums 
on  "Dombey's  sister,"  reached  his  ears  from  all  the 
boys:  admiration  of  the  self-possessed  aud  modest  little 
beauty,  was  on  every  lip:  reports  of  her  intelligence 
and  accom{)lishments  floated  past  him,  constantly;  and, 
as  if  borne  in  upon  the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there 
was  a  half-intelligible  sentiment  diffused  around,  re- 
ferring to  Florence  and  himself,  and  breathing  sympa- 
thy for  both,  that  soothed  and  touched  him. 

,  .        C;ooo[c 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  aiS 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  ob- 
served, and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night — the  present 
and  the  absent;  what  was  then  and  what  had  been — 
were  blended  like  the  colors  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the 
plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the  sun  is  shining  on  them, 
or  in  tne  softening  sky  when  the  same  sun  ia  setting. 
The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think  of  lately,  passed 
before  him  in  the  music;  not  as  claiming  his  attention 
over  i^;ain,  or  as  likely  ever  more  to  occupy  it,  but  as 
peacefully  disposed  of  and  gone.  A  solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean, 
miles  and  miles  away;  upon  its  waters,  fancies,  busy 
with  him  only  yesterday,  were  hushed  and  lulled  to 
rest  like  broken  waves.  The  same  mysterious  murmur 
he  had  wondered  at,  when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the 
beach,  he  thought  he  still  heard  sounding  through  his 
sister's  song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the 
tread  of  feet,  and  having  some  part  in  the  faces  flitting 
by,  and  even  in  the  heavy  gentleness  of  Mr,  Toots,  who 
frequently  came  up  to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through 
the  universal  kindness,  he  still  thought  he  heard  it 
Rpeaking  to  him;  and  even  his  old-fashioned  reputation 
seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not  how.  Thus  little 
Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and  dreaming; 
and  was  very  happy. 

Until  the  time  arrived  for  taking  leave:  and  then,  in- 
deed, there  was  a  sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  brought  up  Skettlea  junior  to  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  remember  to  tell  his 
good  Papa,  with  his  best  compliments,  that  he.  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles,  had  said  he  hoped  the  two  young  gen- 
tlemen would  become  intimately  acquainted.  Lady 
Skettles  kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair  upon  his  brow, 
and  held  him  in  her  arms;  and  even  Mrs.  Baps—poor 
Mrs.  Baps!  Paul  was  glad  of  that— came  over  from 
beside  the  music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the 
harp,  and  took  leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  any- 
body in  the  room. 

"Good  by.  Doctor  Blimber,"  said  Paul,  stretching  out 
his  hand. 

"  Good  by,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  doctor. 

"  I'm  veiy  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Paul,  look- 
ing innocently  up  into  nia  awful  face.  "  Ask,  tlvftirv  \jo 
take  care  of  Diogenes,  if  you  please." 


21fJ  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Diogenes  was  the  do^:  who  had  never  in  his  life  re- 
ceived a  friend  into  hiB  confidence,  before  Paul.  The 
doctor  promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to 
Diogenes  in  Paul's  absence,  and  Paul  havine  again 
thanked  him,  and  shaken  hands  with  him,  bade  adieu 
to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  with  such  heartfelt  ear- 
nestness that  Mrs.  Blimber  forgot  from  that  moment  tii 
mention  Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles,  though  she  had  fuih' 
intended  it,  all  the  evening,  Cornelia  taking  botli 
Paul's  hands  in  hers,  said,  "  Dombey,  Dombey,  yoii 
have  always  been  my  favorite  pupil,  God  bless  you!" 
And  it  showed,  Paul  thought,  how  easily  one  might  do 
injustice  to  a  person;  for  Miss  Blimber  meant  it — 
though  she  ivaa  a  Forcer — and  felt  it! 

A  buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen, 
of  "Dombey's  going!"  "Little  Dombey's  going!"  and 
there  was  a  general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence 
down  the  staircase  and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the 
whole  Blimber  family  were  included.  Such  a  circum- 
stance, Mr,  Feeder  said  aloud,  as  had  never  happened 
in  the  case  of  any  former  young  gentleman  withm  his 
experience;  but  it  would  be  diflScult  to  say  if  this  were 
sober  fact  or  custard-cups.  The  servants,  with  the 
butler  at  their  head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing  Little 
Dombey  go;  and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man, 
taking  out  his  books  and  tnmks  to  the  coach  that  was 
to  carry  him  and  Florence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  tor  the 
night,  melted  visibly. 

Kot  even  the  influence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the 
young  gentlemen — and  they  all,  to  a  boy,  doted  on 
Florence  —  could  restrain  them  from  takmg  quite  a 
noisy  leave  of  Paul;  waiving  hats  after  him,  pressing 
down-stairs  to  shake  hands  with  him,  crying  individu- 
ally "Dombey.  don't  forget  me!"  and  indulging  in 
many  such  ebullitions  of  feeling,  uncommon  among 
those  young  Chesterfields.  Paul  whispered  Flor- 
ence, as  she  wrapped  him  up  before  the  door  was 
opened.  Did  she  near  them?  Would  she  ever  forget 
it?  Was  she  glad  to  know  it?  And  a  lively  delight 
was  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  to  her. 

Once,  for  a' last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upon  the 
faces  thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shin- 
ing and  how  bright,  and  numerous  they  were,  and 
liow  they  were  all  piled  and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ai7 

crowded  theatres.  They  swam  before  him  as  he  looked, 
like  faces  in  an  agitated  glass;  and  next  moment  he 
was  in  the  dark  coach  outside,  holding  close  to  Flor- 
ence. From  that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of  Doctor 
Blimber's,  it  came  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last 
view;  and  it  never  seemed  to  be  a  real  place  again,  but 
always  a  dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  how- 
ever. There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr.  Toots. 
Who,  unexpectedly  letting  down  one  of  the  coach-win- 
dows, and  looking  in,  said,  with  a  most  egregious 
chuckle,  "  Is  Dombey  there?"  .and  immediately  put  it 
up  again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  Nor  was 
this  quite  the  last  of  Mr,  Toots,  even;  for  before  the 
coachman  could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly  let  down  the 
other  window,  and  looking  in  with  a  precisely  similar 
chuckle,  said  in  a  precisely  similar  tone  of  voice,  "Is 
Dombey  there?"  and  disappeared  precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed!  Paul  often  remembered  it, 
and  laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 

But  there  was  much,  soon  afterwards — next  day,  and 
after  that — which  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly. 
As,  why  they  stayed  at  Mrs,  Pipchin'e  days  and  nights, 
instead  of  going  home;  why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Flor- 
ence sitting  by  his  side;  whether  that  had  been  his 
father  in  the  room,  or  only  a  tall  shadow  on  the  wall: 
whether  he  had  heard  his  doctor  say,  of  some  one,  that 
if  thev  had  removed  him  before  the  occasion  on  which 
he  ha5  built  up  fancies,  strong  in  proportion  to  his  own 
weakness,  it  was  very  possible  that  he  might  have  pined 
away. 

He  conid  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often 
said  to  Florence,  "  Oh  Floy,  take  me  home,  and  never 
leave  mel"  but  he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  some- 
times he  had  heard  himself  repeating,  "Take  me  home, 
Floy!  take  me  home!" 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  was 
carried  up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had 
been  the  rumbling  of  a  coach  many  hours  together, 
while  he  lay  upon  the  seat,  with  Florence  still  beside 
him,  and  old  Mrs.  Pipchin  sitting  opposite.  He  remem- 
bered his  old  bed  too,  when  they  laid  him  down  in  it: 
his  aunt.  Miss  Tox.  and  Susan:  but  there  was  something 
else,  and  recent  too,  that  still  perplexed  him. 


■il8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

••  I  want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 
"To  Florence  by  herself,  for  a  moment!" 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

"Floy,  my  pet,  wasn't  that  papa  in  the  hall,  when 
they  brought  me  from  the  coach?" 
■  "Yes,  dear." 

"He  didn't  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he, 
when  he  saw  me  coming  in?" 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  lips  against 
his  cheek. 

"I'm  very  glad  he  didn't  cry,"  said  little  Paul.    "I 
thought  he  did.     Don't  tell  them  that  I  asked." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Walter  could  not.  for  several  days,  decide  what  to 
do  in  the  Barbadoes  business;  and  even  cherished  some 
faint  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  have  meant  what 
he  had  said,  or  that  he  might  cliange  his  mind,  and  tell 
him  he  was  not  to  go.  But  as  nothmg  occurred  to  give 
this  idea  (which  was  sufficiently  improbable  in  itself) 
any  touch  of  con6rmation,  and  as  time  was  slipping  by, 
and  he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  that  he  must  act,  with- 
out hesitating  any  longer. 

Water's  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change 
in  his  atfairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it 
would  be  a  terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty 
in  dashing  Uncle  Sol's  spirits  with  such  an  astounding 
])iece  of  intelligence,  because  they  had  lately  recovered 
very  much,  and  the  old  man  had  become  so  cheerful, 
that  the  little  back  parlor  was  itself  again.  Uncle  Sol 
had  paid  the  first  appointed  portion  of  the  debt  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working  his  way  through 
the  rest;  and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when  he  had 
sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a  very 
distressing  necessity. 

Yet  it  would  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.    He 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  819 

must  know  of  it  beforehand;  and  how  to  tell  him  was 
the  point.  As  to  the  question  of  going  or  not  going, 
Walter  did  not  consider  that  he  had  any  power  of  choice 
in  the  matter.  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  told  him  that  he 
W&8  young,  and  that  hie  uncle's  circumstances  were  not 
good;  and  Mr.  Dombey  had  plainly  expressed,  in  the 
glance  with  which  he  had  accompanied  that  reminder, 
fliat  if  he  declined  to  go  he  might  stay  at  home  if  he 
chose,  but  not  in  his  counting-house.  His  uncle  and  he 
lay  under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  which  was 
of  Walter's  own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun' in 
secret  to  despair  of  ever  winning  that  gentleman's  favor, 
and  might  have  thought  that  he  was  now  and  then  dis- 

gjsed  to  put  a  slight  upon  him,  which  was  hardly  just, 
ut  what  would  have  been  duty  without  that,  was  still 
duty  with  it — or  Walter  thought  so — and  duty  must  be 
done. 

When  Mr.  Dombey  had  looked  at  him,  and  told  him 
he  was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were 
not  good,  there  had  been  an  expression  of  disdain  in  his 
face;  a  contemptuous  and  disparaging  assumption  that 
he  would  be  quite  content  to  live  idly  on  a  reduced  old 
man.  which  stung  the  boy's  generous  soul.  Determined 
to  assure  Mr,  Dombey.  in  so  tar  as  it  was  possible  to  give 
him  the  assurance  without  expressing  it  in  words,  that 
indeed  he  mistook  his  nature,  Walter  had  been  anxious 
to  show  even  more  cheerfulness  and  activity  after  the 
West-Indian  interview^  then  he  had  shown  before:  if 
that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  (juick  and  zealous  dis- 
position. He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  think, 
that  possibly  this  very  qualityin  him  was  not  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  it  was  no  stepping-stone  to  his 
good  opinion  to  be  elastic  and  hopeful  of  pleasing  under 
tne  shadow  of  his  powerful  displeasure,  whether  it  were 
right  or  wrong.  But  it  may  have  been— it  may  have 
been— that  the  great  man  thought  himself  defied  in  this 
new^  exposition  of  an  honest  spirit,  and  purposed  to  bring 
it  down. 

"  Well!  at  last  and  at  least.  Uncle  Sol  must  be  told," 
thought  Walter  with  a  sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  appre- 
hensive that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a  little,  and 
that  his  countenance  might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as 
he  could  wish  it  to  be,  if  he  told  the  old  matv  fo-mseXl, 
and  saw  the  first  effects  of  his  communVcaUou  otv  VXa 


no  DOMBEY  A-ND  SON. 

wrinkled  face,  he  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  ser- 
vices of  that  powerful  mediator,  Captain  Cuttle.  Sun- 
day coming  round,  he  set  off,  therefore,  after  breakfast, 
once  more  to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle's  quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way 
thither,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a  great  dis- 
tance every  Sunday  morning,  to  attend  the  ministry  of 
the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Howler,  who,  having  been 
one  day  discharged  from  the  West  India  Docks  on  a 
false  suspicion  (got  up  expressly  against  him  by  the 
gelieral  enemy)  of  screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons,  and 
applying  his  lips  to  the  onfice,  had  announced  the  de- 
struction of  the  world  for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in 
the  morning,  and  opened  a  front  parlor  for  the  reception 
of  ladies  and  gentleman  of  the  Kanting  persuasion, 
upon  whom,  on  the  first  occasion  of  their  assemblage, 
the  admonitions  of  the  Reverend  Melcliisedech  had  pro- 
duced 80  powerful  an  effect,  that,  in  their  rapturous  pet- 
formance  of  a  sacred  jig,  which  closed  the  service,  the 
whole  flock  broke  through  into  a  kitchen  below,  and 
disabled  a  mangle  belongmg  to  one  of  the  fold. 

This  the  captain,  in  a  moment  of  uncommon  convivi- 
ality, had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the 
repetitions  of  lovely  peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the 
broker  was  paid  out.  The  captain  himself  was  punctual 
in  his  attendance  at  a  church  in  his  own  neighborhood, 
which  hoisted  the  union  jack  every  Sunday  morning: 
and  where  he  was  good  enough — the  lawful  beadle 
being  infirm — to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  hoys,  over  whom 
he  exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his  mysterious 
hook.  Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  captains  habits. 
Walter  made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  ne  might  an- 
ticipate his  going  out;  and  he  made  such  good  speed 
that  he  had  the  pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to 
heliold  the  broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out 
of  the  captain's  open  window,  to  air  iu  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat 
rould  be  seen  by  mortal  eves  without  the  captain;  but 
he  certainly  was  not  in  them,  otherwise  his  legs — the 
houses  in  Brig  Place  not  being  lofty — would  have  ob- 
structed the  street  door,  which  was  perfectly  clear, 
t^iiite  wondering  at  this  discovery,  Walter  gave  a  single 
knock. 

"btinger,"he  distinctly  heard  the  captain  say,  up  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  221 

his  room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore 
WjJter  gave  two  knocks. 

"  Cuttle,"  he  heard  the  captain  say  upon  that;  and  im- 
mediately afterwards  the  captain,  in  his  clean  shirt  and 
braces,  with  his  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round  his 
throat  like  a  coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  ap- 
peared at  the  window,  leaning  out  over  the  broad  blue 
coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  Wal'r!"  cried  the  captain,  looking  down  upon  him 
in  amazement. 

"Ay,  ay.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "only 
me." 

"What's  the  matter,  my  lad?"  inquired  the  captain, 
with  great  concern,  "  Gills  an't  been  and  Bprung  noth- 
ing again?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Walter.  "  Mv  uncle's  all  right,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle." 

The  captain  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said  he 
would  come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he 
did. 

"Though  you're  early,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up-stairs. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,"  siid  Walter,  sit- 
ting down,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  out,  and 
I  want  to  benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel. 

"  So  you  shall,"  said  the  captain;  "  what'U  you  take?" 

"I  want  to  take  your  opinion.  Captain  Cuttle,"  re- 
turned Waiter,  smiling.  "That's  the  only  thing  for 
me." 

"  Come  on  then,"  said  the  captain.  "  With  a  will,  my 
lad ! " 

Walter  related  to  him  what  had  happened;  and  the 
difficulty  in  which  he  felt  respecting  bis  uncle,  and  the 
relief  it  would  be  to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kind- 
ness, would  help  him  to  smooth  it  away;  Captain  Cut- 
tle's infinite  consternation  and  astonishment  at  the 
prospect  unfolded  to  bim,  gradually  swallowing  that 
gentleman  up,  until  it  left  his  face  quite  vacant,  and 
the  suit  of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the  hook,  appar- 
ently without  an  owner, 

"  You  see.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Walter,  "  for  my- 
self, I  am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  not  to  be 
considered.  I  am  to  fight  my  way  tiirough  the  world.  I 
know;  but  there  are  two  points  I  was  thinking,  as  I 


222  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

came  -along,  that  I  should  he  very  particular  ahout.  in 
respect  to  my  uncle.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  deserve 
to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  life — you  believe  me,  I 
know — but  I  am.     Now,  don't  you  think  1  am?" 

The  captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavor  to  rise  from 
the  depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  back  to  hiR 
face;  but  the  effort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat 
merely  nodded  with  a  mute,  unutterable  meaning. 

"  If  I  live  and  have  my  health,"  said  Walter.  "  and  I 
am  not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I  leave  England  I  ran 
hardly  hope  to  see  mv  uncle  again.  He  is  old,  Captain 
Cuttle;  and  besides,  nis  life  is  a  life  of  custom — " 

"  Steady,  Wal'r!  Of  a  want  of  custom?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain, Buddenlv  reappearing. 

"Too  true,  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head;  "but 
I  meant  a  life  of  liabit,  Captain  Cuttle — that  sort  of  cub- 
tom.  And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I  am  sure)  he 
would  have  died  the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  the  stock, 
and  all  those  objects  to  which  he  has  beon  accustomed 
for  so  many  years,  don't  you  think  he  might  die  a  littk 
sooner  for  the  loss  of — " 

"  Of  his  nevy,"  inteirtosed  the  captain.     "  Right! " 

"  Well  then,"  said  Walter,  trying  to  speak  gaily,  "  we 
must  do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  separa- 
tion is  Imt  a  temporary  one,  after  all;  but  as  I  know 
better,  or  dread  that  I  know  better,  Captain  Cuttle,  and 
as  I  have  so  many  reasons  for  regarding  him  with  affec- 
tion, and  duty,  and  honor,  I  am  afraid  I  should  make 
but  a  very  poor  hand  at  that,  if  I  tried  to  persuade  him 
of  it.  That's  my  great  reason  for  wishing  you  to  break 
it  out  to  him;  and  that's  the  first  point." 

"  Keep  her  off  a  point  or  so! "  observed  the  captain,  in 
a  contemplative  voice, 

"  What  did  you  say.  Captain  Cuttle?  "  inqtiired  Walter. 

"Stand  by!"  returned  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 

Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  captain  had  any 
particular  information  to  add  to  this,  but  as  he  said  no 
more,  went  on. 

"Now,  tihe  second  point.  Captain  Cuttle.  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  I  am  not  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have 
always  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  I  have  always  done  it; 
but  he  does  not  like  me.  He  can't  help  his  likingB  and 
dislikings,  perhaps.  I  say  nothing  of  that.  I  only  say 
that  I  am  certain  he  does  not  like  me.  He  does  not  send 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2id 

me  to  this  post  as  a  good  one;  he  disdains  to  repr^ent 
it  as  being  oetter  than  it  is ;  and  I  doubt  very  much  if  it 
will  ever  lead  me  to  advancement  in  the  House  — 
whether  it  does  not,  on  the  contrary,  dispose  of  me  for 
ever,  and  put  me  out  of  the  way.  Now,  we  must  say 
nothing  of  this  to  my  uncle,  Captain  Cuttle,  but  must 
make  it  out  to  be  as  favorable  and  promising  as  we  can; 
and  when  I  tell  you  what  it  really  is,  I  only  do  so,  that 
in  case  any  means  should  ever  arise  of  lending  me  a 
hand,  so  far  off,  I  may  have  one  friend  at  home  who 
knows  my  real  situation. " 

'■Wal'r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  captain,  "in  the  Prov- 
erbs of  Solomon  you  will  find  the  following  words: 
*  May  we  never  want  a  friend  in  need,  nor  a  bottle  to 
give  him! '    When  found,  make  a  note  of." 

Here  the  captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Walter, 
with  an  airof  aownrightgood  faith  that  spoke  volumes; 
at  the  same  time  repeating  (for  he  felt  proud  of  the 
accuracy  and  pointed  application  of  his  quotation), 
"When  found,  make  a  note  of." 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  taking  the  immense 
fist  extended  to  him  by  the  captain  in  both  his  hands, 
which  it  completely  filled,  "next  to  my  Uncle  Sol,  I  love 
you.  There  is  no  one  on  earth  in  whom  I  can  more 
safely  trust.  I  am  sure.  As  to  the  mere  going  away, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  care  for  tbat;  why  should  I  care 
for  tbat!  If  I  were  free  to  seek  my  own  fortune — if  I 
were  free  to  go  as  a  common  sailor — if  I  were  free  to 
venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  fartliest  end  of  the 
world— I  would  gladly  gol  I  would  have  gladly  gone, 
years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of 
It.  But  it  was  against  my  uncle's  wishes,  and  against 
the  plans  he  had  formed  for  me:  and  there  was  an  end 
of  that.  But  what  I  feel.  Captain  Cuttle,  is  that  we 
have  been  a  little  mistaken  all  along,  and  that,  so  far 
as  any  improvement  in  tny  prospects  is  concerned,  I  am 
no  better  off  now  than  I  was  when  I  first  entered  Bom- 
bay's House — perhaps  a  little  worse,  for  the  House  may 
have  been  kindly  inclined  towards  me  then,  and  it  cer- 
taiidy  is  not  now." 

"Turn  again, Whittington."  muttered  the  disconsolate 
captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 

"Ay!"  replied  Walter,  laughing,  "and  turn  a  great 
many  times,  too,  Captain  Cuttle,  Fm  afraid,  before  such 


'iii  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fortune  as  his  ever  turns  up  a^ain.  Not  that  I  com- 
plain," he  added,  in  his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  I  am  provided  for,  I 
can  live.  When  I  leave  my  uncle,  I  leave  him  to  vou; 
and  I  can  leave  him  to  no  one  better.  Captain  Cuttle.  I 
haven't  told  you  all  this  because  I  despair,  not  I ;  it's  to 
convince  you  that  I  can't  pick  and  choose  in  Dombey's 
House,  and  tliat  where  I  am  sent,  there  I  must  go,  and 
what  I  am  offered,  that  I  must  take.  It's  better  for  my 
uncle  that  I  should  be  sent  away;  for  Mr,  Uombey  is  a 
valuable  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know 
when,  Captain  Cuttle;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  won't  be 
less  valuable  when  lie  hasn't  me  there,  every  day,  to 
awaken  his  dislike.  So  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies, 
Captain  Cuttle!  How  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailors 
sing? 

"  For  the  Port  of  B&rbadoeB,  boral 

Cheerily  t 

Leaving  old  GngUnd  behind  oi,  bo^s  I 

Cbserily  1 

Here  the  captain  roared  in  chorus 


The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent 
skipper  not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who 
instantly  sprung  out  of  bed,  threw  up  nis  window  and, 
joined  in  across  the  street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  pro- 
duced a  fine  effect.  When  it  was  impossible  to  sustain 
the  concluding  note  any  longer,  the  skipper  bellowed 
forth  a  terrific  "ahoy!"  intended  in  part  as  a  friendlv 
greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  was  not  at  all 
breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window,  aud 
went  to  bed  again. 

"And  now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  handing 
him  his  blue  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very 
much,  "  if  you'll  come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol 
(which  he  ought  to  have  known,  days  upon  days  ago, 
by  rights)  I  ll  leave  you  at  the  door,  you  know,  and 
walk  about  until  the  afternoon." 

The  captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish 
tlie  comtuissioD,  or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his 
powers  of  executing  it.   He  had  arranged  the  future  bfe 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  325 

and  adventures  of  Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so  en- 
tirely to  his  own  satisfaction;  he  had  felicitated  himself 
so  often  on  the  sagacity  and  foresight  displayed  in  that 
arrangement,  and  had  found  it  so  complete  and  perfect 
in  eM  ite  parts;  that  to  suffer  it  to  go  to  pieces  all  at 
once,  and  even  to  assist  in  breaking  it  up,  required  a 
great  effort  of  his  resolution.  The  captain,  too,  found 
it  difficult  to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and 
to  take  a  perfectly  new  cargo  on-  board,  with  that  ra- 
pidity which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without 
jumbling  and  confounding  the  two.  Consequently,  in- 
stead of  putting  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  any- 
thing like  the  impetuosity  that  could  alone  have  kept 
pace  with  Walters  mood,  he  declined  to  invest  hims^f 
with  those  garments  at  all  at  present;  and  informed 
Walter  that  on  such  a  serious  matter  he  must  be  al- 
lowed to  "  bite  his  nails  a  bit," 

"  It's  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain, 
"  any  time  these  fifty  vear.  When  you  see  Ned  Cuttle 
bite  nis  naib,  Wal'r,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cut- 
tle's aground. " 

Thereupon  the  captain  put  his  iron  hook  between  his 
teeth,  as  if  it  were  a  hand;  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom 
and  profundity  that  was  the  very  concentration  and 
sublimation  of  all  philosophical  reflection  and  grave  in- 
quiry, applied  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  sub- 
ject m  its  various  branches. 

"There's  a  friend  of  mine,"  murmured  the  captain, 
in  an  absent  manner,  "but  he's  at  present  coasting 
round  to  Whitby,  that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on 
this  subject,  or  any  other  that  could  be  named,  as 
would  give  Parliament  six  and  beat  'em.  Been  knocked 
overboard  that  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  twice,  and 
none  the  worse  for  it.  Was  beat  in  his  apprenticeship, 
for  three  weeks  (off  and  on),  about  the  nead  with  a 
ringbolt.    And  yet  a  clearer-minded  man  don't  walk." 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  Walter 
could  not  help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this 
sage,  and  devoutly  hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect 
might  not  be  brought  to  bear  on  his  difficulties  until 
they  were  quite  settled. 

"  If  you  was  to  take  and  -show  that  man  the  buoy  at 
the  Nore."  said  Captain  Cuttle  in  the  same  tone,  "  and 
ask  him  his  opinion  of  it,  Wal'r,  he'd  give  you  an  ov^^i^- 


226  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ion  that  was  no  more  like  that  buoj  than  your  uncle's 
buttons  are.  There  an't  a  man  that  walks — certainly 
not  on  ttvo  legs— that  can  come  near  him.  Not  near 
him!" 

''What's  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle?"  inquired  Wal- 
ter, determined  to  be  interested  in  the  captain's  friend. 

"His  name's  Eunsby,"  said  the  captain.  "But  Lord, 
it  might  be  anything  for  the  matter  of  that  with  such  a 
mind  as  his! " 

The  exact  idea  which  the  captain  attached  to  this 
concluding  piece  of  praise  he  did  not  further  elucidate; 
neither  did  Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his 
beginning  to  review,  with  the  vivacity  natural  to  him- 
self and  to  his  situation,  the  leading  points  in  his  own 
affairs,  he  soon  discovered  that  the  captain  had  relapsed 
into  his  former  profound  state  of  mind;  and  that  while 
he  eyed  him  steadfastly  from  beneath  his  bushy  eye- 
brows, he  evidently  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  out  re- 
mained immersed  m  cogitation. 

In  fact,  Captain  Cuttle  was  laboring  with  such  great 
designs  that,  far  from  being  aground,  he  soon  got  off  into 
the  deepest  of  water,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to  his 
penetration.  By  degrees  it  became  perfectly  plain  to  the 
captain  that  there  was  some  mistake  here;  that  it  was 
undoubtedly  much  more  likely  to  be  Walter's  mistake 
than  his;  that  if  there  were  really  any  West  India 
scheme  afoot  it  was  a  very  different  one  from  what  Wal- 
ter, who  was  young  aud  rash,  supposed;  and  could  only 
be  some  new  device  for  making  his  fortune  with  un- 
usual celerity.  "Or  if  there  should  be  any  little  hitch 
between  'cm,"  thought  the  captain,  meaning  between 
Walter  and  Mr.  Domhey,  "  it  only  wants  a  word  in  sea- 
son from  a  friend  of  both  parties  to  set  it  right  euid 
smooth,  and  make  all  taut  again."  Captain  Cuttle's 
deduction  from  these  considerations  was,  that  as  he  al- 
ready enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey, 
from  having  spent  a  very  agreeable  half-hour  in  his 
company  at  Brighton  (on  the  morning  when  they  bor- 
rowed the  money);  and  that,  as  a  couple  of  men  of  the 
world,  who  understood  each  other,  and  were  mutually 
disposed  to  make  things  comfortable,  could  easily  ar- 
range any  little  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and  come  at  the 
real  facts;  the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be, 
without  saying  anything  about  it  to  Walter  at  present, 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  227 

just  to  step  up  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house — say  to  the 
servant  "  Would  ye  be  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap- 
'en  Cuttle  here?" — meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a  confidential 
spirit — hook  him  by  the  button-hole — talk  it  over — 
make  it  all  right — and  come  away  triumphant. 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  cap- 
tain's mind,  and  by  slo^^  degrees  essumed  this  shape 
and  form,  his  visage  cleared  like  a  doubtful  morning 
when  it  gives  place  to  a  bright  noon.  His  eyebrows, 
which  had  been  in  the  highest  degree  portentous, 
smoothed  their  ruggjed  bristling  aspect,  and  became 
serene:  his  eyes,  which  had  been  nearly  closed  in  the 
severity  of  his  mental  exercise,  opened  freely;  a  smile 
which  had  been  at  first  but  three  specks — one  at  the 
right-hand  comer  of  his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  comer 
of  each  eye— gradually  overspread  his  whole  face,  and 
rippling  up  into  his  forehead,  lifted  the  (glazed  hat:  as 
if  that  too  had  been  aground  with  Captain  Cuttle,  and 
were  now,  like  him,  happily  afloat  again. 

Finally  the  captain  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said, 
"Now,  Wal'r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them 
slops."  By  which  the  captain  meant  nia  coat  and  waist- 
coat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  captain  was  so  par- 
ticular in  the  arrangement  of  his  cravat  as  to  twist  the 
pendent  ends  into  a  sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass  them 
througrh  a  massive  gold  ring  with  a  picture  of  a  tomb 
upon  it,  and  a  neat  iron  railing,  and  a  tree,  in  memory 
or  some  deceased  friend.  Nor  why  the  captain  pulled 
up  his  shirt  collar  to  the  utmost  limits  allowed  by  the 
Irish  linen  below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated  himself 
with  a  complete  pair  of  blinkers;  nor  why  he  changed 
his  shoes,  and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankle- 
jacks,  which  he  only  wore  on  extraordinary  occasions. 
The  captain  being  at  length  attired  to  his  own  complete 
satisfaction,  and  naving  glanced  at  himself  from  head 
to  foot  in  a  shaving-glass  which  he  removed  from  a 
nail  for  that  purpose,  took  up  his  knotted  stick,  and  said 
he  was  ready. 

The  captain's  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual 
when  they  got  out  into  the  street;  but  this,  Walter  sup- 
posed to  be  the  effect  of  the  ankle-jacka,  and  toot\\wft 
heed  of.     Before  they  had  gone  very  far,  tAiey  eiicwvn.- 
tered  &  "voman  selling  flowers:  when  the  captavo,  aW^ 


3U  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ping  short,  as  if  struck  by  a  happy  idea,  made  a  pur- 
chaBe  of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket;  a  most  glonous 
nosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two  feet  and  a  half  round,  and 
composed  of  all  tne  iolliest-looking  flowers  that  blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter 
until  they  reached  the  Instruifient-maker's  door,  before 
which  they  both  paused. 

"You're  going  in?"  said  Walter. 

"Yes;"  returned  the  captain,  who  felt  that  Walter 
must  be  got  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  further,  and 
that  he  had  better  time  his  projected  visit  somewhat 
later  in  the  day. 

"And  you  won't  forget  anything?"  said  Walter. 

"No,"  returned  the  captain. 

"I'll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,"  said  Walter,  "and 
then  1  snail  be  out  of  the  way,  Captain  Cuttle," 

"Take  a  good  long 'un,  my  lad  I  replied  the  captain, 
calling  after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent, 
and  went  his  way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular;  but  he  thought 
he  would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  could  reflect 
on  the  unknown  life  before  him  and,  resting  under 
some  tree,  ponder  quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields 
than  those  near  Hampstead,  and  no  better  means  of 
getting  at  them  than  by  passing  Mr.  Dombey's  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever,  when  he  went 
bv  and  glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds  were 
all  pulled  down,  but  the  upper  windows  stood  wide  open, 
and  the  pleasant  air  stirring  those  curtains  and  waving 
them  to  and  fro  was  the  only  sign  of  animation  in  the 
whole  exterior.  Walter  walked  softly  as  he  passed,  and 
was  glad  when  he  had  left  the  liouse  a  door  or  two  behind. 

He  looked  back  then  with  the  interest  he  had  always 
felt  for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child. 
'  years  ago;  and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  win- 
dows. While  he  was  thus  engaged,  a  chariot  drove 
to  the  door,  and  a  portly  gentleman  in  black,  with  a 
heavy  watch-chain,  alighted,  and  went  in.  When  he 
afterwards  remembered  this  gentleman  and  his  equipage 
together,  Walter  had  no  douot  he  was  a  physician;  and 
then  he  wondered  who  was  ill;  but  the  discovery  did  not 
occur  to  him  until  he  had  walked  some  distance,  think- 
ing listlessly  of  other  things — 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S3I 

Thouffli  Btill  of  what  the  houae  had  suggested  to  him; 
for  WaRer  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaps 
the  time  might  come,  when  the  beautiful  child  who  was 
his  old  friend  and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him 
and  90  glad  to  see  him  since,  might  interest  her  brother 
in  bis  behalf  and  influence  his  fortunes  for  the  better. 
He  liked  to  imagine  this— more,  at  that  moment,  for  the 

Cleasure '  of  imagining  her  continued  remembrance  of 
im,  than  for  any  worldly  profit  he  might  gain — but  an- 
other and  more  sober  fancy  whispered  to  him  that  if  he 
were  alive  then,  he  would  be  bej'ond  the  sea  and  for- 
gotten; she  married,  rich,  proud,  happy.  There  was  no 
more  reason  why  she  should  remember  him  with  any 
interest,  in  such  an  altered  state  of  things,  than  any 
plaything  she  ever  had.     No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  ideahzed  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had 
found  wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified 
her  with  her  innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the 
simplicity  and  truth  of  its  expression,  that  he  blushed 
for  nimself  as  a  libeller  when  he  argued  that  she  could 
ever  grow  proud.  On  the  other  hand,  his  meditations 
were  of  that  fantastic  order  that  it  seemed  hardly  less 
libellous  in  him  to  imagine  her  grown  a  woman:  to 
think  of  her  as  anything  but  the  same  artless,  gentle, 
winning  little  creature  tiiat  she  had  been  in  the  days 
of  good  Mrs.  Brown,  In  a  word,  Walter  found  out 
that  to  reason  with  himself  about  Florence  at  all,  was 
to  become  very  unreasonable  indeed;  and  that  he  could 
do  no  better  than  preserve  her  image  in  his  mind  as 
something  precious,  unattainable,  unchangeable,  and 
indefinite — ^mdefinite  in  all  but  its  power  of  giving  him 
pleasure,  and  restraining  him  like  an  angel's  hand  from 
aovthing  unworthy. 

It  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that 
day,  listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and 
the  softenea  murmur  of  the  town— breathing  sweet 
scents;  glancing  sometimes  at  the  dim  horizon  beyond 
which  his  voyage  and  his  place  of  destination  lay;  then 
looking  round  on  the  gi-een  English  grass  and  the  home 
landscape.  But  he  hardly  once  thought  even  of  going 
away,  distinctly;  and  seemed  to  put  off  reflection  idly, 
from  hour  to  hour,  and  from  minut^  to  minute,  while  he 
yet  went  on  reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plod- 


230  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ding  homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  be 
heard  a  shout  from  a  man,  and  then  a  woman's  voice 
calling  to  him  loudly  by  name.  Turning  quickly  in  his 
surprise,  he  saw  that  a  hackney-coach,  going  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  had  stopped  at  no  great  distance;  that 
the  coachman  was  looking  back  from  hiB  box,  and 
making  signals  to  him  with  his  whip;  and  that  a  young 
woman  inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  beck- 
oning with  immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this  coach, 
he  found  that  the  young  woman  was  Miss  Nipper,  and 
that  Miss  Nipper  was  in  such  a  flutter  as  to  oe  abnost 
beside  herseu. 

"Staggs's  Gardens,  Mr,  Walter!"  said  Miss  Nipper; 
"  if  you  please,  oh  do! " 

"Eh?    cried  Walter:  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please!" 
said  Susan. 

"There!"  cried  the  coachman,  appealing  to  Walter, 
with  a  sort  of  exulting  despair;  "that's  the  way  the 
young  lady's  been  a  goin'  on  for  up'ards  of  a  mortal  nour, 
and  me  continivally  backing  out  of  no  thoroughfares, 
where  she  would  drive  up.  I've  had  a  many  fares  in 
this  coach,  first  and  last,  but  never  such  a  fare  as  her." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs's  Gardens,  Susan?" 
inquired  Waiter. 

"  Ah!  She  wants  to  go  there!  Where  is  it?"  growled 
the  coachman, 

"  l,don't  know  where  it  is! "  exclaimed  Susan,  wildly. 
"  Mr.  Walter,  I  was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss 
Floj'  and  our  poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day 
when  you  found  Miss  Floy  in  the  city,  for  we  lost  her 
coming  home,  Mrs.  Richards  and  me,  and  a  mad  bull, 
and  Mrs.  Richards'  eldest,  and  though  I  went  there 
afterwards,  I  can't  remember  where  it  is,  I  think'  ifs 
sunk  into  the  ground.  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don't  desert  me, 
Staggs's  Gardens,  if  vou  please.  Miss  Floy's  darling- 
all  our  darlings — little,  meek,  meek  Master  Paul!  Oh, 
Mr.  Walter!" 

"  Good  God! "  cried  Walter.     "  Is  he  very  ill?  " 

"  The  pretty  flower!"  cried  Susan,  wringing  her  hands, 
"  has  took  the  fancy  that  he'd  like  to  see  his  old  nurse, 
and  I've  come  to  bri^g  her  to  his  bedside,  Mrs.  Staggs's 
of  Polly  "Toodle's  Gardens,  some  one  pray! " 

Greatly  moved  by  what  ho  heard,  and  catching  Susan's 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  231 

earoeBtness  inuiiediately,  Walter,  now  that  he  under- 
stood the  nature  of  her  errand,  dashed  into  it  with  such 
ardor  that  the  coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow 
closely  as  he  ran  before,  inquiring  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  the  way  to  Staggs's  Gardens, 

There  was  no  such  place  as  3taggs's  Gardens.  It  had 
vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  sum- 
mer-bouses once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  theit 
heads,  and  granite  columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a 
vista  to  the  railway  world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste 
ground,  where  the  refuse  matter  had  been  heaped  up  of 
yore,  was  swallowed  up  an^gone;  and  in  its  frowsy 
stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed  with  rich 
goods  and  costly  merchandise.  The  old  by-streets  now 
swarmed  with  passengers  and  vehicles  of  every  kind: 
the  new  streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the 
mud  and  wagon-ruts  formed  towns  within  themselves, 
originating  wholesome  comforts  and  conveniences  be- 
longing to  themselves,  and  never  tried  nor  thought  of 
until  they  sprung  into  existence.  Bridges  that  had  led 
to  nothing,  led  to  villas,  gardens,  churches,  healthy 
public  walks.  The  carcases  of  houses,  and  beginnings 
of  new  thoroughfares,  had  started  off  upon  the  line  at 
steam's  own  speed,  and  shot  away  into  the  country  in 
a  monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighborhood  which  had  hesitated  to  ac- 
knowledge the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  had 
grown  wise  and  penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in 
such  a  case,  and  now  boasted  of  its  powerful  and  pros- 
perous relation— there  were  railway  patterns  in  its 
draper's  shops,  and  railway  journals  in  the  windows  of 
its  newsmen.  There  were  railway  hotels,  coffee-houses, 
lodging-houses,  boarding-houses;  railway  plans,  maps, 
views,  wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich-boxes,  and  time- 
tables; railway  hackney-coach  and  cab-stands;  railway 
omnibuses,  railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hang- 
ers-on and  parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation, 
"There  was  even  railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if 
the  sun  itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  vanquished 
was  the  master  chimney-sweeper,  whilome  incredulous 
at  Staggs's  Gardens,  who  now  lived  in  a  stuccoed  house 
three  stories  high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with  golden, 
flourishes  upon  a  varnished  board,  as  contractot  toT  \Jwa 
cleansing  of  railway  chimneys  by  machineiy. 


232  '    DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day 
aad  night,  throhbing  currents  rushed  and  returned  in- 
cessantly like  its  life's  blood.  Crowds  of  people,  and 
mountains  of  goods,  departing  and  arriving  scores  upon 
scores  Of  times  in  every  four-and-twenty  hours,  pro- 
duced a  fermentation  in  the  place  that  was  always  in 
action.  The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to  pack  up 
and  take  trips.  Wonderful  members  of  Parliament. 
who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  made 
themselves  merr^  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of 
engineers,  and  given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross- 
examination,  went  dowm  into  the  north  with  tbeir 
watches  in  their  hands,  and  sent  on  messages  before  ly 
the  electric  telegraph  to  say  that  they  were  coming. 
Night  and  day  the  conquering  engines  rumbled  at  their 
distant  work,  or,  advancing  smoothly  to  their  journey's 
end,  and  gliding  like  tame  dragons  into  the  allotted 
corners  grooved  out  to  the  inch  for  their'  reception, 
stood  bubbling  and  trembling  there,  making  the  wails 
quake,  as  if  they  were^  dilating  with  the  secret  know- 
ledge of  great  powers  yet  unsuspected  in  them,  and 
strong  purposes  not  yet  achieved. 

But  Staggs's  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch. 
Oh  woe  the  day!  when  "  not  a  rood  of  English  ground  " 
— laid  out  in  Staggs's  Gardens — is  securel 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  followed 
by  the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a  man  who  had  once 
resided  in  that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no  other 
than  the  master  sweep  before  referred  to,  grown  stout, 
and  knocking  a  douole  knock  at  his  own  door.  He 
knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well.  Belonged  to  the  Rail- 
road, didn't  he? 

"Yes,  sir,  yes!"  cried  Susan  Nipper  from  the  coach 
window, 

"Where  did  be  Uve  now?"  hastily  inquired  Wal- 
ter. 

He  lived  in  the  company's  own  buildings,  second  turn- 
ing to  the  right,  down  the  yard,  cross  over,  and  take 
the  second  on  the  right  again.  It  was  number  eleven; 
they  couldn't  mistake  it;  but  if  they  did,  they  had  only 
to  ask  for  Toodle.  Engine  Fireman,  and  any  one  would 
show  them  which  was  his  house.  At  this  unexpected 
stroke  of.  success.  Susan  Nipper  dismounted  from  the 
coach  with  all  speed,  took  Walter's  arm,  and  set  off  at 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  233 

a  breathlesB  pace  on  foot;  leaving  the  coach  there  to 
await  their  return. 

"Has  the  little  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan?"  inquired 
Walter,  as  they  hurried  on. 

"Ailing  for  a  deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how 
much,"  said  Susan;  adding,  with  excessive  sharpness, 
"  O,  them  Blimbers! " 

"Blimbers?"  echoed  Walter, 

"  I  couldn't  foi^ve  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this,  Mr. 
Walter,"  said  Susan,  "and  when  there's  so  much  seri- 
ous distresB  to  think  about,  if  I  rested  bard  on  any  one, 
especially  on  them  that  little  darling  Paul  speaks  well 
of,  but  1 7nay  wish  that  the  family  was  set  to  work  in 
a  stony  soil  to  make  new  roads,  and  that  Miss  Blimber 
went  in  front,  and  had  the  pickaxe!" 

Miss  Nipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faster  than 
before,  as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  relieved 
her.  Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  no  breath  of  his 
own  to  spare,  hurried  along  without  asking  any  more 
questions;  and  they  soon,  in  their  impatience,  burst  in  at 
a  little  door  and  came  into  a  clean  parlor  full  of  children. 

"  Where's  Mrs.  Richards!"  exclaimed  Susan  Nipper, 
looking  round.  "  Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards, 
come  along  with  me,  my  dear  creeter!  " 

"  Why,  if  it  ain't  Susan!  '  cried  Polly  rising  witji  her 
honest  face  and  motherly  figure  from  among  the  group, 
in  great  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it's  me,"  said  ^usan,  "and  I  wish 
it  wasn't,  though  I  may  not  seem  to  flatter  when  I  say 
so,  but  little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told  his  Pa  to- 
day that  he  would  like  to  see  the  face  of  his  old  nurse, 
and  bim  and  Miss  Floy  hope  vou'll  come  along  with  me 
— and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs.  Ricnarda— forgetting  what  is 
past,  and  do  a  kindness  to  the  sweet  dear  that  is  with- 
ering away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  withering  away!" 
Susan  Nipper  crying,  Polly  shed  tears  to  see  her,  and  to 
bear  what  she  had  said;  and  all  the  children  gathered 
round  (including  numbers  of  new  babies);  and  Mr. 
Toodle  wbo  had  just  come  home  from  Birmingham, 
and  was  eating  bis  dinner  out  of  a  basin,  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  and  put  on  his  wife's  bonnet  and  shawl 
for  her,  which  were  hanging  up  behind  the  door;  then 
tapped  her  on  the  back;  and  said  with  mote  la.\,\veTV3 
feeling  than  eloquence,  "Polly!  cut  away V 


934  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

So  they  got  back  to  the  coach,  long  before  the  coach- 
man expected  them;  and  Walter,  putting  Susan  and 
Mrs.  Kichards  inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  bos  himself 
that  there  might  be  no  more  mistakes,  and  deposited 
them  safely  in  the  hall  of  Mr,  Dombey's  house — where, 
by  the  by,  he  saw  a  mighty  nosegay  lying,  which  re- 
minded him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle  had  purchased  id 
his  company  that  morning.  He  would  have  lingered  to 
know  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  waited  any  length 
of  time  to  see  if  he  could  render  the  least  service;  but, 
painfully  sensible  that  such  conduct  would  be  looked 
upon  by  Mr.  Dombey  as  presumptuous  and  forward,  he 
turned  slowly,  sadly,  anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  door, 
when  a  man  came  running  after  him,  and  begged  him 
to  return,  Walter  retraced  his  steps  as  quietly  as  he 
could,  and  entered  the  gloomy  house  with  a  sorrowful 
foreboding. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

,WHAT  THB  WAVBB  WERE  ALWAYS  SAYING. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay 
there,  listening  to  .Jhe  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tran- 
<iuilly;  not  caring  much  how  the  time  went,  but  watch- 
ing it  and  watching  everything  about  him  with  observing 
eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the 
rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like 
golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on, 
and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflec- 
tion died  away,  and  a  gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall, 
he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  mto  night.  Then 
he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps, 
and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining  overhead.  His 
fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the  river, 
which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city:  and 
now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it 
would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and  more  than 
all,  how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 


DOMBEY  A^D  SON.  235 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could,  hear  them  coming, 
count  them  as  they  paused,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow 
distance,  he  would  he  and  watch  the  many-colored  ring 
about  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  d^.  His  only 
trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt  forced, 
sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it — to  stem  it  with  his  childish 
hands — or  choke  its  way  with  sand — and  when  he  saw 
it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out!  But  a  word  from 
Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  restored  him  to 
himself;  and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her  breast,  he 
told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the 
bud;  and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — pictured!  he  saw — the 
high  church  towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sky, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  staHing  into  life  once 
more,  the  river,  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast 
as  ever),  and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar 
sounds  and  cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below; 
the  servants  in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy;  faces 
looked  in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants 
softly  how  he  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself, 
"I  am  better.  I  am  a  great  deal  better,  thank  you!  Tell 
papa  so!" 

By  little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  hustle  of  the 
day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  pass- 
ing and  re-passing;  and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled 
with  a  restless  and  uneasy  sense  again — the  child  could 
hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleepingor  his  waking 
moments — of  that  rushing  river.  "  Why,  will  it  never 
stop,  Floy?"  he  would  sometimes  ask  her,  "  It  is  hear- 
ing me  away,  I  thinki" 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  him;  and 
it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy,  Let  me  watch 
you,  now!"  They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions  in 
a  comer  of  his  bed,  ana  there  he  would  recline  the 
while  she  lay  beside  him:  bending  forward  oftentimes 
to  kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near  that 
she  was  tired,  and  how  she  had  sat  up  so  many  nights 
beside  him. 

Thus,  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  would 


336  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

gradually  decline;  and  again  the  golden  water  would  be 
dancing  on  the  walj. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors— 
they  used  to  assemble  down-stairs,  and  come  up  together 
- — and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant 
of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody  what  they 
said),  that  he  even  knew  the  difference  in  the  sound  of 
their  watches.  But  his  interest  centered  in  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 
For  Paul  had  heard  them  say,  long  ago,  that  that  gen- 
tleman had  been  with  his  mama  when  she  clasped  Flor- 
ence in  her  arms,  and  died.  And  he  could  not  forget  it, 
now.     He  liked  him  for  it.     He  was  not  afraid. 

The  people  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as 
on  that  first  night  at  Doctor  Blimber's — except  Florence: 
Florence  never  changed — and  what  had  been  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  was  now  his  father,  sitting  with  his  head  upon 
his  hand.  Old  Mrs.  Pipehin  dozing  in  an  easy-chair, 
often  changed  to  Miss  Tox,  or  his  aunt;  and  Paul  was 
quite  content  to  shut  his  eyes  again,  and  see  what  hap- 
pened next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure  with  its 
head  upon  its  hand  returned  so  often,  and  remained  so 
long,  and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speaking,  never 
being  spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face,  that  Paul 
began  to  wonder,  languidly,  if  it  were  real;  and  in  the 
night-time  saw  it  sittmg  there,  with  fear. 

"Floy!  "  he  said.     "  What  is  that?  " 

"Where,  dearest?" 

"There!  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed." 

"  There's  nothing  there,  except  papa!  " 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to 
the  bedside,  said:  "  My  own  boy!  Don't  you  know  me?" 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this  his 
father?  But  the  face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking,  thrilled 
while  he  gazed,  as  if  it  were  in  pain;  and  before  he 
could  reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between 
them,  and  draw  it  towards  him,  the  figure  turned 
away  quickly  from  the  little  bed,  and  went  out  at  the 
door. 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart,  but 
he  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her 
with  his  face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  ob- 
served the  figure  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  he 
called  to  it. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  237 

"  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  papa!  Indeed  I  am 
quite  happy!" 

His  father  coming,  and  bending  down  to  him — which 
he  did  quickly,  ana  without  first  pausing  by  the  bed- 
side—Paul held  him  round  the  necfc,  and  repeated  those 
words  to  him  several  times,  and  very  earnestly;  and 
Paul  never  saw  him  in  his  room  again  at  any  time, 
whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called  out,  ''  Don't 
be  so  sorry  for  me!  Indeed  I  am  quite  happy! "  This 
yvas  the  b^^nning  of  his  always  saving  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to 
tell  his  father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the 
wall;  how  many  nights  the  dark,  dark  river  rolled  to- 
wards the  sea  in  spite  of  him;  Paul  never  counted, 
never  sought  to  know.  If  their  kindness  or  his  sense 
of  it  could  have  increased,  they  were  more  kind,  and 
he  more  grateful  every  day;  but  whether  they  were 
many  days  or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now  to 
the  gentle  boy. 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and 
her  picture  in  the  drawing-room  down-stairs,  and  had 
thought  she  must  have  loved  sweet  Florence  better  than 
his  father  did  to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when  she  felt 
she  was  dying — for  even  he,  her  brother,  who  had  such 
dear  love  for  her,  could  have  no  greater  wish  than  that. 
The  train  of  thought  suggested  to  him  to  inquire  if  he 
had  ever  seen  his  mother;  for  he  could  not  remember 
w^hether  they  had  told  him  yes  or  no,  the  river  running 
very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mama?" 

"No,  darling,  why?" 

"  Did  I  never  see  any  kind  face,  like  mama's,  looking 
at  me  when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy?" 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of 
a  face  before  him. 

"  Oh  yes,  dear!  " 

"Whose,  Ploy?" 

"  Your  old  nurse's.    Often." 

"  And  where  is  my  old  nurse!"  said  Paul.  "Is  she 
dead  too?  Floy,  are  we  all  dead,  except  you?  " 

There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room  for  an  instant — longer, 
perhaps;  but  it  seemed  no  more — then  all  was  still 
again;  and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colorl^s,  but 


838  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

smiling,  held  bis  head  upon  her  arm.  Her  arm  trembled 
very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please!  " 

"  She  is  not  here,  darling.  She  shall  come  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  Floy!" 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the 
windows,  which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in 
the  air,  and  waving  to  and  fro:  then  he  said,  "  Floy,  is 
it  to-morrow?  Is  she  come?" 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  be  heard  her  telling  him 
when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon 
be  hack;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept  her 
word — perhaps  she  had  never  been  away — b«t  the  next 
thing  that  happened  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke  mind  and  body — and 
sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about  him. 
There  was  no  grey  mist  before  them  as  there  had  been 
sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one,  and 
called  them  by  their  names. 

"  And  who  IS  this?  Is  this  my  old  nurse?"  said  the 
child,  regarding  with  a  radiant  smile  a  figure  coming  in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  t£ose 
tears  at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy,  her 
pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other 
woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
up  his  wasted  hand,  ana  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast,  as 
One  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  woman 
would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  there  but  him  and 
Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  Floy!  this  is  a  kind  good  face! "  said  Paul.  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  it  again.  Don't  go  away,  old  nurse!  Stay 
here! " 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name 
he  knew. 

"Who  was  that,  who  said  'Walter?'"  he  asked,  look- 
ing round.  "Fc^me  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here?  I 
should  like  to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly;  but  his  father  soon  said  to 
Susan,  "  Call  him  back,  then:  let  him  come  up! "  After 
a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  De  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  nis  nurse,  and  saw 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  n9 

that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought 
into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and  nis 
cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a  favorite  with 
Paul;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  said,  "  Good  by ! " 

"Gt)od  by,  my  child?"  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying 
to  his  bed's  head.     "Not  good  by! " 

For  an  instant  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful 
face  with  which  he  had  bo  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his 
comer  by  the  fire.  "  Ah  yes,"  he  eaid,  placidly,  "  good 
by!  Walter  dear,  good  by  1"  turning  his  head  to  where 
he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again.  "Where  is 
papa? " 

Be  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before  the 
words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Rememoer  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  look- 
ing in  his  face.  "  Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of 
Walter! "  The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  air,  as  if  it 
cried  "  good  by! "  to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down,"  he  said,  "  and  Floy,  come  close 
to  me,  and  let  me  see  you!  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 
other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell 
upon  them,  locked  together. 

"How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks 
and  the  rushes,  Floy  1  But  it's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear 
the  waves!    They  always  said  so! " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon 
the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the 
banks  were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on 
them,  and  how  tallthe  rushes!  Now  the  boat  was  out 
at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there  was  a 
shore  before  him.    Who  stood  on  the  bank! — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do 
at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  ip  do  it; 
but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck. 
■  "Mama  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face! 
But  (ell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is 
not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shining 
on  me  as  I  go!" 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  laaVvvouN 
The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  gaTm.eTv\s.,  Kaft- 


■^40  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

will  last  unchaDged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  Snnament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The 
old,  old  fashion— Death! 

Oh  thank  QoD,  all  who  ^see  it,  for  that  older  fashion 
fet,  of  Immortality!  And  look  upon  us,  aneels  of 
young  children,  with  regards  not  quite  estranged,  when 
the  swift  river  bears  us  to  the  oceanl 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  surprisine 
talent  for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming  with 
which  (as  is  not  unusual  in  men  of  transparent  simplic- 
ity) he  sincerely  believed  himself  to  be  endowed  by 
nature,  had  gone  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house  on  the  eventful 
Sunday,  winking  all  the  way  as  a  vent  for  his  super- 
fluous sagacity,  and  had  preaeoted  himself  in  the  full 
lustre  of  the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes  of  Towlinaon. 
Hearing  from  that  individual,  to  his  great  concer^,  of 
the  impending  calamity,  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicacy, 
sheered  off  again  confounded;  merely  banding  in  the 
nosegay  as  a  small  mark  of  his  solicitude,  and  leaving 
bis  respectful  compliments  for  the  family  in  general, 
which  he  accompanied  with  an  expression  of  his  hope 
that  they  would  lay  fheir  beads  well  to  the  wind  under 
existing  circumstances,  and  a  friendly  intimation  that 
be  would  "look  up  again"  to-morrow. 

The  captain's  compliments  were  never  beard  of  any 
more.  The  captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hall  all 
night,  was  swept  into  tbe  dust-bin  next  morning;  and- 
the  captain's  sly  arrangement,  involved  in  one  catas- 
trophe with  greater  hopes  and  loftier  designs,  was 
crushed  to  pieces.  So,  when  an  avalanche  bears  down 
a  mountain  forest,  twigs  and  bushes  suffer  with  the 
trees,  and  all  perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  evening 
from  his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  241 

too  much  occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he -had  to  give 
them,  and  by  the  emotions  naturally  awakened  in  his 
breast  by  the  scene  through  w^hich  he  had  passed,  to 
observe  either  that  his  uncle  was  evidently  unacquainted 
with  the  intelligence  the  captain  had  undertaken  to  im- 
part, or  that  the  captain  made  signals  with  his  hook, 
wanting  him  to  avoid  the  subject.  Not  that  the  cap- 
tain's signals  were  calculated  to  have  proved  very  com- 
prehensible, however  attentively  observed;  for,  like 
those  Chinese  sages  who  are  said  in  their  conferences 
to  write  certain  learned  words  in  the  air  that  are  whollv 
imi>088ible  of  pronunciation,  the  captain  made  sucn 
waves  and  flourishes  as  nobody  without  a  previous 
knowledge  of  his  mystery  would  have  been  at  all  likely 
to  understand, 

Captfiin  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognizant  of  what 
had  happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  per- 
ceived the  slender  chance  that  now  existed  of  his  being 
able  to  obtain  a  little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombe^  before 
the  period  of  Walter^s  departure.  But  in  admitting  to 
himself,  with  a  disappointed  and  crestfallen  counte- 
nance, that  Sol  Qills  must  be  told,  and  that  Walter  must 
go — taking  the  case  for  the  present  as  he  found  it,  and 
not  having  it  enlightened  or  improved  beforehand  by 
the  knowing  management  of  a  friend — the  captain  still 
felt  an  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned  Cuttle,  was 
the  man  for  Mr.  Dombev;  and  that,  to  set  Walter's  for- 
tunes quite  square,  nothing  was  wanted  but  that  they 
two  should  come  together.  For  the  captain  never  could 
forget  how  well  he  and  Mr.  Dombev  had  got  on  at 
Brighton;  with  what  nicety  each  of  them  baa  put  in  a 
woSl  when  it  was  wanted;  how  exactly  thev  had  taken 
one  another's  measure;  nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had  pointed 
out  that  resource  in  the  first  extremity,  and  had  brought 
the  interview  to  the  desired  termination.  On  all  these 
grounds  the  captwn  soothed  himself  with  thinking  that 
though  Ned  Cuttle  was  forced  by  the  pressure  of  events 
to  "  stand  by  "  almost  useless  for  the  present,  Ned  would 
fetch  up  with  a  wet  sail  in  good  time,  and  carry  all 
before  him. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion. 
Captain  Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own 
bosom,  while  he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening  with 
a  tear  on  his  shirt-collar  to  what  he  related,  whether 


U%  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

it  might  not  be  at  once  genteel  and  politic  to  give 
Mr.  Dombey  a  verbal  invitation,  whenever  they  ehould 
meet,  to  come  and  cut  his  mutton  in  Brig  Place  on  seme 
day  of  his  own  naming,  and  enter  on  the  question  of  his 
young  friend's  prospects  over  a  social  glass.  But  the 
uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  ana  the  possibiiity 
of  her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passage  during  such  an 
entertainment,  and  there  delivering  some  homily  of  an 
uncomplimentary  nature,  operated  as  a  check  on  the 
captain's  hospitable  thoughts,  and  rendered  him  timid 
of  giving  them  encouragement. 

One  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  captain,  as  Walter, 
sitting  thoughtfully  over  his  untast«d  dinner,  dwelt  on 
all  that  had  nappened;  namely,  that  however  Walter's 
modesty  might  stand  in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it 
himself,  he  was,  as  one  might  say,  a  member  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  family.  He  haa  been,  in  his  own  person, 
connected  with  the  incidenthe  so  pathetically  described; 
he  had  been  by  name  remembered  and  commended  in 
close  association  with  it;  and  his  fortunes  must  have  a 
particular  interest  in  his  employer's  eyes.  If  the  cap- 
tain had  any  lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own  conclu- 
sions, he  had  not  the  least  doubt  that  they  were  good 
conclusions  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  Instrument- 
maker,  Therefore  he  availed  himself  of  so  favorable  a 
moment  for  breaking^  the  West  Indian  intelligence  to 
his  old  friend,  as  a  piece  of  extraordinary  preferment; 
declaring  that  for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  (if  he  had  it)  for  Walter's  ^ain  in 
the  long-run,  and  that  he  had  no  doubt  such  an  invest- 
ment would  yield  a  handsome  premium. 

Solomon  Qills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  communica- 
tion, which  fell  upon  the  little  back-parlor  like  a  thun- 
ilerbolt,  and  tore  up  the  hearth  savagely.  But  the  cap- 
tain flashed  such  golden  prospects  before  his  dim  sight: 
hinted  so  mysteriously  at  Whittingtonian  consequences: 
laid  such  emphasis  on  what  Walter  had  just  now  told 
themr  and  appealed  to  it  so  confidently  as  a  corrobora- 
tion of  his  predictions,  and  a  great  advance  towards  the 
realisation  of  the  romantic  legend  of  Lovely  Peg:  that 
he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter,  for  his  part,  feigned 
to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardor,  and  so  sure  of  coming 
home  again  soon,  and  backed  up  the  captain  with  such 
expressive  shakings  of  his  head  and  rubbings  of  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  243 

hands,  that  Solomon,  lookine  first  at  him  and  then  at 
Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think  he  ought  to  be  transported 
wifti  joy. 

"But  I'm  behind  the  time,  you  understand,"  he  ob- 
served in  apology,  passing  his  hand  nervously  down  the 
whole  row  of  bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  and  then  up 
again,  as  if  they  were  beads  and  he  were  telling  them 
twice  over:  "and  I  wotild  rather  havemy  dear  boy  here. 
It's  an  old-fashioned  notion,  I  dare  say.  He  was  always 
fond  of  the  sea.  He's " — and  he  looked  wistfully  at 
Walter — "he's  glad  to  go." 

"  Uncle  Sol!"  cried  Walter,  quickly,  "if  you  say  that, 
I  won't  ao.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  I  won't.  If  my  uncle 
thinks  icould  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  I  was  going 
to  be  made  Governor  of  all  the  Islands  in  the  West  In- 
dies, that's  enough.     I'm  a  fisture." 

"Warr,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "Steady!  Sol 
Gills,  take  an  observation  of  your  nevy." 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the 
captain's  hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Here  is  a  certain  craft,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  mag- 
nificent sense  of  the  allegory  into  which  he  was  soaring, 
"  a-going  to  put  out  on  a  certain  voyage.  What  name 
is  wrote  upon  that  craft  indelibly?  Is  it  The  Gay?  or," 
said  the  captain,  raising  his  voice  as  much  as  to  say, 
observe  the  point  of  this,  "  is  it  The  Gills?  " 

"Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  drawing  Walter  to  his  side, 
and  taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  "I  know.  I 
know.  Oi  course  I  know  that  Wally  considers  me  more 
than  himself  always.  That's  in  my  mind.  When  I  say 
he  is  glad  to  go,  I  mean  I  hope  he  is.  Eh?  look  you, 
Ned,  and  you  too,  Wally,  my  dear,  this  ia  new  and  un- 
expected to  me;  and  Im  afraid  my  being  behind  the 
time,  and  poor,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Is  it  really  good 
fortune  for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now?"  said  the  old  man, 
Ii>t^king  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other,  "  Really  and 
truly?  Is  it?  I  can  reconcile  myself  to  almost  anything 
that  advances  Wallv,  but  I  won't  have  Wally  putting 
himself  to  any  disadvantage  for  me,  or  keeping  any- 
thing from  me.  You,  Ned  Cuttle! "  said  the  ola  map, 
fastening  on  the  captain,  to  the  manifest  confusion  of 
that  diplomatist;  "are  you  dealing  plainly  by  your  old 
friend?  Speak  out,  Ned  Cuttle.  IsthereanythingheVim^L'', 
Ought  he  to  go?    How  do  you  know  it  first,  anA.  "wV^'i" 


244  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

As  it  was  a  contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Walter 
struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  captain's  relief;  and 
between  them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  Sol  Gills,  by 
continued  talking,  to  the  project;  or  rather  so  confused 
him  that  nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of  separation,  was 
distinctly  clear  to  his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter;  for  on 
the  very  next  day,  Walter  received  from  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager  the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage  and 
outfit,  together  with  the  information  that  the  Son  and 
Heir  would  sail  in  a  fortnight,  or  within  a  day  or  two 
afterwards  at  latest.  In  the  hurry  of  preparation: 
which  Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as  possible: 
the  old  man  lost  what  little  self-possession  he  ever  had; 
and  BO  the  time  of  departure  drew  on  rapidly. 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Wal- 
ter from  day  to  day,  found  the  time  still  tending  on 
towards  his  going  away  without  any  occasion  offering 
itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer  itself,  for  a  better  un- 
derstanding of  his  position.  It  was  after  much  consid- 
eration of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering  over  such  an 
unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  that  a 
bright  idea  occurred  to  the  captain.  Suppose  he  made 
a  call  on  Mr.  Carker,  and  tried  to  find  out  from  Aim 
how  the  land  really  lay! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.  It  came 
upon  him  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smok- 
ing an  early  pipe  in  Brig  Place  after  breakfast;  and  it 
was  worthy  of  the  tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  con- 
science, which  was  an  honest  one,  and  was  made  a  lit- 
tle uneasy  by  what  Walter  had  confided  to  him,  and 
what  Sol  Gills  had  said;  and  it  would  be  a  deep,  shrewd 
act  of  friendship.  He  would  sound  Mr,  Carker  care- 
fully, and  say  much  or  little,  just  as  he  read  that  gen- 
tleman's character,  and  discovered  that  they  got  on 
well  together  or  the  reverse. 

Accordingly,  without  the  fear  of  Walter  before  his 
eyes  (who  he  knew  was  at  home  packing).  Captain  Cut 
tie  a^ain  assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning  brooch, 
and  issued  forth  on  this  second  expedition.  He  pur- 
chased no  propitiatory  nosegay  on  the  present  occasion, 
as  he  was  gomg  to  a  place  of  business:  but  he  put  a 
small  sunflower  in  his  button-hole  to  give  himself  ni 


eyi 
tie 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  345 

agreeable  relish  of  the  country;  and  -with  this,  and  the 
knobby  stick,  and  the  glazed  uat,  bore  down  upon  the 
offices  of  Dombey  and  Son. 

After  takinc  a  glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a 
tavern  close  Dy,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  captain 
naade  a  rush  down  the  court  lest  its  good  effects  snould 
evaporate,  and  appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.  Perch. 

"Matey,"  said  the  captain,  in  persuasive  accents. 
'•  One  of  your  governors  is  named  Carker." 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it;  but  gave  him  to  understand, 
as  in  official  duty  bound,  that  all  his  governors  were 
engaged,  and  never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any 
more, 

"Look'ee  here,  mate,"  said  the  captain  in  hie  ear; 
"  my  name's  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  captain  would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him, 
but  Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt;  not  bo  much  in  de- 
sign, as  in  starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a 
weapon  unexpectedly  exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in 
her  then  condition,  be  destructive  to  that  lady's  hopes. 

*'If  you'll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Gap'en  Cuttle 
here,  when  you  get  a  chance,"  said  the  captain,  "I'll 
wait." 

Saving  which,  the  captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Pereh'f 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the 
crown  of  the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jammed  between  his 
knees  (without  injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human 
could  bend  it),  rubbed  his  heaa  well  all  over,  and  ap- 
peared refreshed.  He  subsequently  arranged  his  hair 
with  his  hook,  and  sat  looking  rounH  the  office,  contem- 
plating the  clerks  with  a  serene  aspect. 

The  captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and 
he  was  altogether  so  mysterious  a  being,  that  Perch  the 
messenger  was  daunted. 

"What  name  was  it  you  said?"  asked  Mr.  Perch, 
bending  down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 

"Cap'en,"  in  a  deep  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 

"  Cuttle." 

"Oh!  "  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  he  caught 
it,  and  couldn't  help  it;  the  captain,  in  his  diplomacy, 
was  80  intpressive.  "  I'll  see  if  he's  disengaged  now.  I 
don't  know.    Perhaps  he  may  be  for  a  minute." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I  won't  detain  him  longer  than  a 


846  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

minute,"  said  the  captain,  nodding  with  all  the  weighty 
importance  that  he  felt  within  him.  Perch,  soon  re- 
turning, said,  "Will  Captain  Cuttle  walk  this  way?" 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearth-ruK 
before  the  emptyfireplace,wMch  was  ornamented  witE 
a  castellated  sheet  oi  brown  paper,  looked  at  the  cap- 
tain as  he  came  in  with  no  very  special  encourage- 
ment. 

"  Mr.  Carker?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth. 

The  captain  liked  his  answering  with  a  smite:  it 
looked  pleasant.  "  You  see,"  began  the  captain,  rolling 
his  eyes  slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking  in  as 
much  of  it  as  his  shirt  collar  permitted;  "I'm  a  seafar- 
ing man  myself,  Mr,  Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is  on  your 
books  here,  is  a'most  a  son  of  mine." 

"  Widter  Gay?"  said  Mr,  Carker,  showing  all  his 
teeth  again, 

"  Wal'r  Gay  it  is,"  replied  the  captain,  "  right!  "  The 
captain's  manner  expressed  a  warm  approval  of  Mr, 
Carker's  quickness  of  perception.  "  I  m  a  intimate 
friend  of  his  and  his  uncle's.  Perhaps,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "you  may  have  heard  your  head  governor  men- 
tion my  name ?— Captain  Cuttle," 

"  Nol  "  said  Mr,  Carker,  with  a  still  wider  demonstra- 
tion than  before, 

"Well,"  resumed  the  captain,  "I've  the  pleasure  of 
his  acquaintance.  I  waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sus- 
sex coast  there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when — in 
short,  when  there  was  a  little  accommodation  wanted." 
The  captain  nodded  his  head  in  a  manner  that  was  i.' 
once  comfortable,  easy,  and  expressive.  "  You  remem- 
ber, I  dare  say?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  had  the  honor  of  ar- 
ran^ng  the  business." 

"To  oe  sure!"  returned  the  captain.  "Right  again! 
you  had.     Now  I  've  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here—" 

"  Won't  you  sit  down? "  said  Mr,  Carker,  smiling. 

"Thank'ee."  returned  the  captain,  availing  himself  of 
the  offer.  "A  man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself, 
perhaps,  in  his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down.  Won't 
you  tpke  a  cheer  yourself?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps 
from  the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  247 

the  chimney-piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  captain 
with  an  eye  in  every  tooth  and  gum.  "  You  have  taken 
the  liberty,  you  were  going  to  say— though  it 's  none — " 

"  Thanfc'ee  kindly,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain:  "of 
coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal'r.  Sol  Gills, 
his  uncle,  ia  a  man  of  science,  and  in  science  he  may  be 
considered  a  clipper;  but  he  ain't  what  I  should  alto- 
gether call  a  able  seaman — not  a  man  of  practice.  Wal'r 
18  as  trim  a  lad  as  ever  stepped;  but  he  s  a  little  down 
by  the  head  in  one  respect,  and  that  is  modesty.  Now 
what  I  should  wish  to  put  to  you,"  said  the  captain,  low- 
ering his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  of  confidential 
growl,  "in  a  friendly  way,  entirely  between  you  and 
me,  and  for  my  own  private  reckoning,  'till  your  head 
governor  has  wore  round  a  bit,  and  I  can  come  along- 
side of  him,  is  this. — Is  everything  right  and  comfort- 
able here,  and  is  Wal'r  out'ard  bound  with  a  pretty  fair 
wind?" 

"What  do  you  think  now.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned 
Carker,  gathenifg  up  his  skirts  and  settling  himself  in  his 
position.  "Yb«  are  a  practical  man;  what  do  you  think?" 

The  acuteness  and  signiScance  of  the  captain's  eye,  as 
he  cocked  it  in  reply,  no  words  short  of  those  unutter- 
able Chinese  words  before  referred  to  could  describe. 

"Come!  "said  the  captain,  unspeakably  encouraged, 
"  what  do  you  say?    Am  I  right  or  wrong?  " 

So  much  had  the  captain  expressed  m  his  eye,  em- 
boldened and  incited  by  Mr.  Carker's  smiling  uroanity, 
that  he  felt  himself  in  as  fair  a  condition  to  put  the 
question  as  if  he  had  expressed  his  sentiments  with  the 
utmost  elaboration. 

"  Right,"  said  Mr,  Carter,  "  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  Out'ard  bound  with  fair  weather,  then,  I  say,"  cried 
Captain  Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

"Wind  right  astam,  and  plenty  of  it,"  pursued  the 
captain. 

jfr.  Oarker  smiled  assent  again. 

*'  Ay,  ay!  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  greatly  relieved  and 
pleased.  "  I  know'd  how  she  headed,  well  enough:  I 
told  Wal'r  so.    Thank'ee,  thank'ee." 

"Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet;  "all  the  world  before 


248  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is,"  re- 
turned the  delighted  captain. 

At  the  word  "wife,"  {which  he  bad  uttered  without 
design),  the  captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and 
putting  the  glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  Knobby  stick, 
gave  it  a  twirl,  and  looked  sideways  at  his  always 
Btniling  friend, 

"  I'd  bet  a  giU  of  old  Jamaica,"  said  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  attentively,  "  that  I  know  what  you  re  smiling 
at." 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

"It  goes  no  farther? "  said  the  captain,  making  a 
poke  at  the  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  him- 
self that  it  was  shut. 

"  Not  an  inch,"  said  Mr,  Carker. 

"  You  're  a  thinking  of  a  capital  F  perhaps  ? "  said  the 
captain. 

Mr  Carker  didn't  deny  it. 

"  Anything  about  a  L,"  said  the  captain,  "  or  a  O?  " 

Mr.  Carker  still  smiled.  • 

"  Am  I  right  again?  "  inquired  the  captain  in  a  whis- 

t>er,  with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead  swelling  in 
lis  triumphant  joy. 

Mr.  Carker,  in  replv,  still  smiling,  and  now  nodding 
assent.  Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the 
liand,  assuring  him,  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the 
same  tack,  and  that  as  for  him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his 
course  that  way  all  along,  "  He  know'd  her  first,"  said 
the  captain,  with  all  tlie  secrecy  and  gravity  that  the 
subject  demanded,  "  in  an  uncommon  manner  —  you 
remember  his  finding  her  in  the  street,  when  she  was 
a'most  a  babby — he  has  liked  her  ever  since,  and  she 
liim,  as  much  as  two  such  youngsters  can.  We've  aJ- 
wavB  said,  Sol  Gills  and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out  for 
each  other." 

A  cat,  or  a  monkey,  or  a  hyena,  or  a  death's-head, 
could  not  have  shown  the  captain  more  teeth  at  one 
time  than.  Mr.  Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of 
their  interview.  * 

"There's  a  general  in-drai^ht  that  way,"  observed 
the  happy  captain.  "Wind  and  water  sets  in  that  di- 
rection, you  see.  Look  at  his  being  present  t'other 
day! " 

"Most  favorable  to  his  hopes,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  249 

"  Look  at  his  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that 
day! "pursued  the  captain.  "Why  what  can  cut  him 
adrift  now?" 

*'  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Carker. 

"You're  right  again,"  returned  the  captain,  giving 
his  hand  anouier  squeeze.  "  Nothing  it  is.  So!  steady  I 
There's  a  son  gone:  pretty  little  creetur.     Ain't  there?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  son  gone,"  said  the  acquiescent  Carker. 

"  Pass  the  word,  and  there's  another  ready  for  you," 
quoth  the  captain.  "  Nevy  of  a  scientific  uncle!  Nevy 
of  Sol  Gills!  Wal'r!  Wal'r!  as  is  already  in  your  busi- 
ness! And  " — said  the  captain,  rising  gradually  to  a 
quotation  he  was  preparing  for  a  final  burst,  "who — 
comes  from  Sol  Gills's  daily,  to  your  business,  and  your 
buzzums." 

The  captain's  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr. 
Garker  with  his  elbow,  in  concluding  each  of  the  fore- 

foing  short  sentences,  could  be  surpassed  by  nothing 
ut  the  exultation  with  which  he  fell  back  and  eyed 
him  when  he  had  finished  this  brilliant  display  of  elo- 
quence and  sagacity;  his  great  blue  waistcoat  heaving 
with  the  throes  of  such  a  masterpiece,  and  his  nose  in  a 
state  of  violent  inflammation  from  the  same  cause. 

"  Am  I  right?  "  said  the  captain. 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bending  down  at 
the  knees,  for  a  moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if  he 
were  falling  together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself  at 
once,  "  your  views  in  reference  to  Walter  Gay  are  thor- 
oughly and  accurately  right;  I  understand  that  we 
speak  together  in  confidence." 

"  Honor! "  interposed  the  captain.     "  Not  a  word." 

"  To  him  or  any  one?  "  pursued  the  manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance 
— and  guidance,  of  course," repeated  Mr.  Carker,  "with 
a  view  to  your  future  proceedings." 

"Thank'ee  kindly.  I  am  sure,"  said  the  captain,  lis- 
tening with  great  attention. 

"  I  nave  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that's  the  fact.  You. 
have  hit  the  probabilities  exactly. " 

"  And  with  regard  to  your  head  governor,"  said  the 
captain,  "why  an  interview  had  Better  come  about- 
nat'ral  between  us.     There's  time  enough." 

Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 


250  .  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Time  enough."  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bow- 
ing his  head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue 
and  lips. , 

"And  as  I  know  now — it's  what  I  always  said — that 
Wal'r'B  in  a  way  to  make  his  fortune,"  said  the  captain. 

"  To  make  his  fortune,"  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the 
same  dumb  manner. 

"  And  as  Wal'r's  going  on  this  little  vOTage  is,  ae  I 
may  say,  in  bis  day  s  work,  and  a  part  of  his  general 
expectations  here,    said  the  captain. 

"Of  his  general  expectations  here,"  assented  Mr. 
Carker,  durooly  as  before. 

"  Why,  so  long  as  I  know  that,"  pursued  the  captain, 
"there's  no  hurry,  and  my  mind's  at  ease." 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voice- 
less manner,  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in 
his  opinion  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men 
he  had  ever  met,  and  that  even  Mr,  Dombey  might  im- 
prove himself  on  such  a  model.  With  great  heartiness, 
therefore,  the  captain  once  again  extended  his  enormouB 
hand  (not  unlike  an  old  block  in  color),  and  gave  him  a 
grip  that  left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a  proof  impression 
of  the  chinks  and  crevices  with  which  the  captain's 
palm  was  liberally  tattoo'd. 

"Farewell!"  said  the  captain.  "I  ain't  a  man  of 
many  words,  but  I  take  it  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so 
friendly,  and  above-board.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I've 
been  at  all  intruding,  will  you? "  said  the  captain. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  the  other, 

"Thank'ee.  My  berth  ain"t  very  roomy,"  said  the 
captain,  turning  back  again,  "but  it's  tolerably  snug: 
iind  if  you  was  to  find  yourself  near  Brig  Place,  number 
nine,  at  any  time — will  you  make  a  note  of  it? — and 
would  come  up-stairs.  without  minding  what  was  said 
by  the  person  at  the  door,  I  should  be  proud  to  see  you," 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  captain  said, 
"Good  dayl"  and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door,  leav- 
ing Mr.  Carker  still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece. 
In  whose  sly  look  and  watchful  manner;  in  whose  false 
mouth,  stretched  but  not  laughing;  in  whose  spotless 
cravat  and  very  whiskers;  even  in  whose  silent  passing 
of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white  linen  and  his  smooth 
face;  there  was  something  desperately  cat-like. 

The  unconscious  captain  walked  out  in  a  state  of  self- 


BOMBEY  AND  SON.  ,  251 

floriflcatioQ  that  imparted  quite  a  new  cut  to  the  broad 
lue  Buit.  "Stand  By,  Ned!"  said  the  captain  to  him- 
self. "  You've  done  a  little  bueiness  for  the  youngsters 
to^lay,  my  lad!" 

In  nis  exultation,  and  in  his  familiarity,  present  and 
prospective,  with  the  House,  the  captain,  when  he 
reached  the  outer  ofl&ce,  could  not  refrain  from  rallying 
Mr.  Perch  a.  little,  and  asking  him  whether  he  thought 
everybody  was  still  engaged.  But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a 
man  who  had  done  his  duty,  the  captain  whispered  in 
his  ear,  that  if  he  felt  disposed  for  a  glass  of  rum-and- 
water,  and  would  follow,  he  would  be  happy  to  bestow 
the  same  upon  him. 

Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  captain,  somewhat 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  clerks,  looked  round  from  a 
central  point  of  view,  and  took  a  general  survey  of  the 
office  as  part  and  parcel  of  a  project  in  which  his  young 
friend  was  nearly  interested.  The  strong-room  excited 
his  especial  admiration;  but,  that  he  might  not  appear 
too  particular,  he  limited  himself  to  an  approving 
glance,  and,  with  a  graceful  recognition  of  the  clerks  as 
a  body,  that  was  full  of  politenesB  and  patronage,  passed 
out  into  the  court.  Being  promptly  joined  by  Mr. 
Perch,  he  conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern,  and 
fulfilled  his  pledge — hastily,  for  Perch's  time  was  pre- 
cious. 

"  I'll  give  you  for  a  toast,"  said  the  captain,  "  Wal'r! " 

"  Who?"  submitted  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Wal'r!"  repeated  the  captain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard 
ID  infancy  that  there  was  once  a  poet  of  that  name, 
made  no  objection;  but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the 
captain's  coming  into  the  city  to  propose  a  poet;  indeed 
if  he  had  proposed  to  put  a  poet's  statue  up — say  Shakes- 

Eeare's,  for  example — in  a  civic  thoroughfare,  he  could 
ardly  have  done  a  greater  outrage  to  Mr.  Perch's  ex- 
perience. On  the  whole,  he  was  such  a  mysterious  and 
incomprehensible  character  that  Mr.  Perch  decided  not 
to  mention  him  to  Mrs.  Perch  at  all,  in  case  of  giving 
rise  to  anj  disagreeable  consequenees. 

HystenouB  and  incomprehensible  the  captain,  with 
that  lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a  little  busi- 
ness for  the  youngsters,  remained  all  day,  eveti  \iO  Vva 
most  intimate  friends;  and  but  that  WaiteT  aXXrv^vAA^ 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

his  winks  aud  ^rins,  and  other  such  pautomiinic  reliefs 
of  himself,  to  his  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  their  in- 
nocent deception  upon  old  Sol  Gills,  he  would  assuredly 
have  betrayed  himself  before  night.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, he  kept  his  own  secret;  and  went  home  late  from 
the  Instrument-maker's  house,  wearing  the  glazed  hat 
so  much  on  one  side,  and  carrying  such  a  beaming  ex- 
pression in  his  eves,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  (who  might 
nave  been  brougnt  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's,  she  was  eucli 
a  Roman  matron)  fortified  herself,  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  him,  behind  the  open  street  door,  and  refused  to  come 
out  to  the  contemplation  of  her  blessed  infants  until  he 
was  securely  lodged  in  hie  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FATHER    AMD   DAUOHTBS. 

There  is  a  hush  through  Mr.  Dombey's  house.  Ser- 
vants gliding  up  and  down-stairs  rustle  but  make  no 
sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together  constantlj-,  and 
sit  long  at  meals,  making  much  of  theirmeatand  drink, 
and  enjoying  themselves  after  a  grim  unholy  fashion. 
Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  relates 
melancholy  anecdotes;  and  tells  them  how  she  always 
said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  that  it  would  be  so,  and  takes 
more  table-ale  than  usual,  and  is  very  sorry  but  socia- 
ble. Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a 
little  fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about  equally  against 
her  feelings  and  the  onions.  Towlinson  begins  to  think 
there's  a  fate  in  it,  and  wants  to  know  if  anybody  can 
tell  him  of  any  good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a  cor- 
ner house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  having  happened 
a  long  time  ago;  though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm  and 
beautiful,  upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noiseless  visit- 
ors, with  shoes  of  felt — who  have  been  there  before: 
and  with  them  comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so 
strange  a  one  for  infant  sleepers.  All  this  time,  the  be- 
reaved father  has  not  been  seen  even  by  his  attendant; 


364  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

era  think,  by  sorrow  and  distress  of  mind.  His  walk  is 
.aB  erect,  his  bearing  is  as  stiff  as  ever  it  has  been.  He 
hides  his  face  behind  no  handkerchief,  and  looks  before 
him.  But  that  his  face  is  something  sunk  and  rigid, 
and  is  pale,  it  bears  the  same  expression  as  of  old.  He 
takes  his  place  within  the  carriage,  and  three  other 
gentlemen  follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral  moves 
slowly  down  the  street.  The  feathers  are  yet  nodding 
in  the  distance,  when  the  juggler  has  the  basin  spinning 
on  a  cane,  and  has  the  same  crowd  to  admire  it.  But 
the  juggler's  wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with  the 
moneyH^ox,  for  a  child's  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that 
perhaps  the  baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may 
not  grow  up  to  be  a  man,  and  wear  a  sky-blue  fillet 
round^his  head,  and  salmon-colored  worsted  drawers, 
and  tumble  in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  streets, 
and  come  within  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  In  this 
same  church,  the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon 
be  left  of  him  on  earth — a  name.  All  of  him  that  is 
dead,  they  lay  there,  near  the  perishable  substance  of 
his  mother.  It  is  well.  Their  ashes  lie  where  Florence 
in  her  walks — oh  lonely,  lonely  walksl— <nay  pass  them 
any  day. 

The  service  over,  and  the  clergyman  withdrawn, 
Mr.  Dombey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a  lo^  voice, 
whether  the  person  who  has  been  requested  to  attend 
to  receive  instructions  for  the  tablet  is  there? 

Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  "Yes," 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it 
placed;  and  shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall, 
the  shape  and  size;  and  how  it  is  to  follow  the  memorial 
to  the  mother.  Then,  with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the 
inscription,  and  gives  it  to  him:  adding,  "I  wish  to 
have  it  done  at  once." 

"  It  shall  be  donfe  immediately,  sir." 

"There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and 
age,  you  see." 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears  to 
hesitate.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  observing  his  hesitation, 
turns  away,  and  leads  towards  the  porch. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir; "  a  touch  falls  gently  on  his 
mourning  cloak;  "  but  as  you  wish  it  done  immediately, 
and  it  may  be  put  in  band  when  I  get  back — " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  255 

"WeU?" 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  read  it  over  again?  I 
think  there's  a  mistake." 

"Where?" 

The  statuary  ei'^es  him  back  the  paper,  and  points 
out,  with  his  pocket  rule,  the  words,  "  beloved  and  only 
child." 

"  It  should  be  'eon,'  I  think,  sir?" 

"  You  are  right.     Of  course.     Make  the  correction." 

The  father,  with  a  hastier  step,  pursues  his  way  to 
the  coach.  When  the  other  three,  who  follow  closely, 
take  their  seats,  his  face  is  hidden  for  the  first  time — 
shaded  by  his  cloak.  Nor  do  they  see  it  any  more  that 
day.  He  alights  first,  and  passes  immediately  into  his 
own  room.  The  other  mourners  (who  are  only  Mr. 
Chick,  and  two  of  the  medical  attendants)  proceed  up- 
stairs to  the  drawing-room,  to  be  received  by  Mrs.  Chick 
and  Miss  Tox.  And  what  the  face  is,  in  the  shut-up 
chamber  imderne&th:  or  what  the  thoughts  are:  what 
the  heart  is:  what  the  contest  or  the  suffering:  no  one 
knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know,  below-stairs,  in  the 
kitchen,  is  that  "it  seems  like  Sunday."  They  can 
hardly  persuade  themselves  but  that  there  is  something 
unbecoming,  if  not  wicked,  in  the  conduct  of  the  peo- 
ple out  of  doors,  who  pursue  thfeir  ordinary  occupations, 
and  wear  their  everyday  attire.  It  is  quite  a  novelty 
to  have  the  blinds  up,  and  the  shutters  open:  and  they 
make  themselves  dismally  comfortable  over  bottles  of 
wine,  which  are  freely  broached  as  on  a  festival.  They 
are  much  inclined  to  moralise.  Mr.  Towlinson  proposes 
with  a  sigh,  "Amendment  to  us  all!"  for  wnicn,  as 
cook  says  with  another  sigh,  "There's  room  enough, 
God  knows."  In  the  evening,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox 
take  to  needlework  again.  In  the  evening  also,  Mr. 
Towlinson  goes  out  to  take  the  air,  accompanied  by  the 
housemaid,  who  has  not  yet  tried  her  mourning  bonnet. 
They  are  very  tendel*  to  each  other  at  dusky  street- 
comers,  and  Towlinson  has  visions  of  leading  an 
altered  and  blameless  existence  as  a  serious  green- 
grocer in  Oxford  Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  house,  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  laBitvN 
nights.    The  morning  sun  awakens  th.e  o\d  \i,ouse\vo\«.. 


2fi6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

settled  down  once  more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy 
children  opposite  run  past  with  hoops.  There  is  a 
splendid  wedding  in  the  church.  The  juggler's  wife  is 
active  with  the  money-box  in  another  quarter  of  the 
town.  The  mason  sings  and  whistles  as  he  chips  out 
p-A-u-L  in  the  marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy  the 
loss  of  one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart, 
80  wide  and  deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth 
of  vast  eternity  can  fill  it  up!  Florence,  in  her  innocent 
affliction  miglit  have  answered,  "Oh  my  brother,  oh 
my  dearly  loved  and  loving  brother!  Only  friend  iind 
companion  of  my  slighted  childhood!  Could  any  less 
idea  shed  the  light  already  dawning  on  your  earlj 
grave,  or  give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  18 
springing  into  life  beneath  this  rain  of  tears! " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  held  it  as  a 
duty  incumbent  on  her  to  improve  the  occaBion,  "  when 
you  are  as  old  as  I  am — " 

"  Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,"  observed  Miss 
Tox. 

"You  will  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeez- 
ing Miss  Tox's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendlv 
remark,  "  you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavail- 
ing, and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  submit." 

"  I  will  try,  dear  aunt.'  I  do  try,"  answered  Florence, 
sobbing. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "because, 
my  love,  as  our  dear  Miss  Tox — of  whose  sound  sense 
and  excellent  judgment  there  cannot  possibly  be  two 
opinions — " 

"My  dear  Louisa,  I  shall  really  be  proud,  soon,"  said 
Miss  Tox. 

— "  will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Chick.  "  we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions 
to  make  an  effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any — my 
dear,"  turning  to  Miss  Tox,  "I  want  a  word.  Mis — 
Mis-" 

"  Demeanor?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "How  can  you! 
Goodness  me,  it's  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.     Mis — ** 

"  Placed  affection,"  su^ested  Miss  Tox  timidly. 

"Good  gracious.  Lucretia!"  returned  Mrs.  Chick. 
"How  very  monstrous!    Misanthrope  is  the  word    I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  257 

want.  The  idea!  Misplaced  affection!  I  say,  if  any 
misanthrope  Tvere  to  put,  in  ray  presence,  the  question, 
'Why  were  we  born?'  I  should  reply,  'To  make  an 
effort. ' " 

"Very  good  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  much  impreBsed 
by  the  originality  of  the  sentiment.     "  Very  good," 

"  Unhappily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  have  a  warn- 
ing under  our  own  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason 
to  suppose,  my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  had  been 
made  m  time,  in  this  family,  a  train  of  the  most  trying 
and  distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided. 
Nothing  shall  ever  persuade  me,"  observed  the  good  mat- 
ron, with  a  resolute  air,  "  but  that  if  that  effort  iiad  been 
made  by  poor  dear  Fanny,  the  poor  dear  darling  child 
would  at  least  have  had  a  stronger  constitution. 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  halt 
a  moment;  but,  as  a  practical  illustration  of  her  doctrine, 
broDght  herself  up  short,  in  the  middle  of  a  sob,  and 
went  on  again. 

"Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  you  have 
some  strength  of  mind,  and  do  not  selfishly  aggravate 
the  distress  in  which  your  poor  papa  is  plunged." 

"  Dear  aunt!  "said  Florence,  kneeling  quickly  down 
before  her  that  she  might  the  bettor  ana  more  earnestly 
look  into  her  face.  "  Tell  me  more  about  papa.  Pray 
tell  me  about  him!    Is  he  quite  heart-broken?" 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a  tender  nature,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether 
she  saw  in  it  a  succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected 
child,  to  the  affectionate  concern  so  often  expressed  by 
her  dead  brother — or  a  love  that  sought  to  twine  itself 
about  the  heart  that  had  loved  him,  and  that  could  not 
bear  to  be  shut  out  from  sympathy  with  such  a  sorrow, 
in  such  sad  community  of  love  and  grief — or  whether 
she  only  recognised  the  earnest  and  devoted  spirit  which, 
although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was  wrung  with  ten- 
derness long  unreturned,  and  in  the  waste  and  solitude 
of  this  bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a  comfort  in  it, 
and  to  give  some,  by  some  small  response — ^whatever 
may  have  been  her  understanding  of  it,  it  moved  Miss 
Tox.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs. 
Chick,  and,  patting  Florence  hastily  on  the  cheek,  turned 
aside  and  suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from  her  eyea,^\^- 
out  waiting  for  a  Jead  from  that  wise  matroTi. 


358  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a  moment,  the  prt 

mind  on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself;  and  re- 
mained mute,  looking  on  the  beautiful  young  face  that 
had  so  long,  so  steadily  and  patiently,  been  turned 
towards  the  little  bed.  But  recovering  her  voice — which 
was  synonymous  with  her  presence  of  mind,  indeed  thej 
were  one  and  the  same  thing — she  replied  with  dignity: 

"Florence,  my  dear  child,  your  poor  papa  is  peculiar 
at  times;  and  to  question  me  about  him,  is  to  question 
me  upon  a  subject  which  I  really  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand. I  believe  I  have  as  much  influence  with  your 
papa  as  anybody  has.  Still,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  has 
said  very  little  to  me;  and  that  I  have  only  seen  him 
once  or  twice  for  a  minute  at  a  time,  and  indeed  have 
hardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room  has  been  dark.  I 
have  said  to  your  papa,  '  Paul!' — that  is  the  exact  ex- 
pression I  used— 'Paul!  why  do  you  not  take  something 
stimulating?'  Your  papa's  reply  nas  always  been,  'Lou- 
isa, have  the  goodness  t©  leave  me,  I  want  nothing. 
I  am  better  by  myself. '  If  I  was  to  be  put  upon  my  oatn 
to-morrow,  Lucretia,  before  a  magistrate,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  "  I  have  no  doubt  I  could  venture  to  swear  to  iixose 
identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  "  My 
Louisa  is  ever  methodical!" 

"In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  "literally 
nothing  has  passed  between  your  poor  papa  and  myself, 
until  to-day:  when  I  mentioned  to  your  papa  that  Sir 
Bamet  and  Lady  Skettles  had  written  exceedingly  kind 
notes — our  sweet  boy!  I-ady  Skettles  loved  mm  like 
a Where's  my  pocket-handkerchief  I" 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

"  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should 
visit  them  for  change  of   scene,     Mentioning  to  your 

Eapa  that  I  thought  Miss  Tox  and  myself  might  now  go 
ome  (in  which  he  quite  agreed),  I  inquired  if  he  had 
any  objection  to  your  accepting  this  invitation.  He 
said,  'No,  Louisa,  not  the  least! 
Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 
"  At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here, 
Florence,  to  paying  this  visit  at  present,  or  to  going 
home  with  me — " 

"I  should  much  prefer  it,  aunt,"  was  the  faint  re- 
joinder. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  259 

"  Why  then,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  you  cau.  It's 
a  strange  choice,  I  must  say.  But  you  always  were 
strange.  Anybody  else  at  your  time  of  life,  and  after 
what  has  passed — my  dear  Misa  Tox,  I  have  lost  my 
pocket4iand]ceFchief  again — would  he  glad  to  leave 
here,  one  would  suppose," 

"  I  should  not  like  to  feel,"  said  Florence,  "  as  if  the 
house  was  avoided.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  the 
— his — the  rooms  up-stairs  were  quite  empty  and  dreary, 
aunt.  I  would  rather  stay  here,  for  the  present.  Oh 
my  brother!  oh  my  brother!  " 

It  was  a  natural  emotion,  not  to  be  suppressed;  and  it 
would  make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the  hands 
with  which  she  covered  up  her  face.  The  overcharged 
and  heavy-laden  breast  must  sometimes  have  that  vent, 
or  the  poor  wounded  solitary  heart  within  it  would 
have  fluttered  like  a  bird  with  broken  wings,  and  sunk 
down  in  the  dust. 

"Well,  child! "said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause,  "I 
wouldn't  on  any  account  say  anything  unkind  to  you, 
and  that  I'm  sure  you  know.  You  will  remain  here, 
then,  and  do  exactly  as  you  like.  No  one  will  interfere 
with  you,  Florence,  or  wish  to  interfere  with  you,  I'm 
sure. 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

"  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  papa  that 
he  really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration 
in  a  temporary  change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "than  he  told 
me  he  had  already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into 
the  country  for  a  short  time.  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  go 
very  soon.  He  can't  go  too  soon.  But  I  suppose  there 
are  some  arrangements  connected  with  nis  private 
papers  and  so  forth,  consequent  on  the  affliction  that 
nas  tried  us  all  so  much — I  can't  think  what's  become 
of  mine:  Lucretia,  lend  me  yours,  my  dear — that  may 
occupy  him  for  one  or  two  evenings  in  bis  own  room. 
Your  papa's  a  Dombey,  child,  if  ever  there  was  one," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  drying  both  her  eyes  at  once  with 
great  care  on  opposite  corners  of  Miss  Tox's  handker- 
chief. "Hell  make  an  effort.  There's  no  fear  of 
him." 

"Is  there  nothing,  aunt,"  asked  Florence,  tremb\\wj., 
"  I  might.do  to — " 

"  Lord,  my  dear  child,"  interposed  Mrs.  C\iict,Vafift.'A:J , 


3G0  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  what  are  ;j'ou  talking  about?  If  your  papa  said  to  me 
— I  have  given  you  his  exact  words,  'Louisa,  I  waut 
nothing:  I  am  better  by  myself— what  do  you  think 
he'd  say  to  you?  You  mustn't  show  yourself  to  him, 
child.    Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing." 

"Aunt,"  said  Florence,  "  I  will  go  and  He  down  in 
my  bed," 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed 
her  with  a  kiss.  But  Miss  Toi,  on  a  faint  pretence  of 
looking  for  the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  up-stairs 
after  her;  and  tried  in  a  few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort 
her,  in  spite  of  great  discouragement  from  Susan  Nip- 
per. For  Miss  Nipper,  in  her  burning  zeal,  disparaged 
Miss  Tox  as  a  crocodile;  yet  her  sympathy  seemed 
genuine,  and  had  at  least  the  vantage-ground  of  disin- 
terestedness—there was  little  favor  to  be  won  by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan 
to  uphold  the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish?  Was  there 
no  other  neck  to  clasp;  no  other  face  te  turn  top  no  one 
else  to  say  a  soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow?  Was 
Florence  so  alone  in  the  bleak  world  that  nothing  else 
remained  to  her?  Nothing.  Stricken  motherless  and 
brotherless  at  once — for  in  the  loss  of  little  Paul,  that 
first  and  greatest  loss  fell  heavily  upon  her— this  was 
the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much  she 
needed  help  at  first! 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed 
course,  and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  ser- 
vants, and  her  father  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Flor- 
ence could  do  nothing  but  weep,  and  wander  up  and 
down,  and  sometimes,  in  a  sudden  pang  of  desolate  re- 
membrance, fly  to  her  ow^n  chamber,  wring  her  hands, . 
lay  her  face  down  on  her  bed,  and  know  no  consolation: 
nothing  but  the  bitterness  and  cruelty  of  grief.  This 
commonly  ensued  upon  the  recognition  of  some  spot  or 
object  very  tenderly  associated  with  him;  and  it  made 
the  miserable  house,  at  first,  a  place  of  ag^ny. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  love  to  bum  so 
fiercely  and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that  in  its 
grosser  composition  has  the  taint  of  earth  may  prey 
upon  the  breast  that  gives  it  shelter;  but  the  sacred  fire 
from  heaven  is  as  gentle  in  the  heart  as  when  it  rested 
on  the  heads  of  the  assembled  twelve,  and  showed  each 
man  his  brother,  brightened  and  unhurt.    The  image 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3G] 

conjured  up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the 
Boftened  voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet  trustfulnesB 
and  peace;  and  Florence,  though  she  wept  still,  wept 
more  tranquilly,  and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing 
on  the  wall,  in  the  old  place  at  the  old  serene  time, 
had  her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It 
waa  not  very  long  before  that  room  again  knew  her, 
often;  sitting  there  alone,  as  patient  and  as  mild  as 
when  she  had  watched  beside  the  little  bed.  When  any 
sharp  sense  of  its  being  empty  Hmote  upon  her,  Bhe 
could  kneel  beside  it,  and  pray  Goi>— it  was  the  pouring 
out  of  her  full  heart — to  let  one  angel  love  her  and  re- 
member her. 

It  was  not  very  long,  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
mal house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twi- 
light, slowly,  and  stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old 
air  to  which  he  bad  so  often  listened,  with  his  drooping 
head  upon  her  arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was 
quite  dark,  a  little  strain  of  music  trembled  in  the  room: 
so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was  more  like  the 
mournful  recollection  of  what  she  had  done  at  his  re- 
quest on  that  last  night,  than  the  reality  repeated.  But 
it  was  repeated,  often — very  often,  in  the  shadowy  soli- 
tude; and  broken  murmurs  of  the  strain  still  trembled 
on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in  tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with 
which  her  fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea- 
shore; and  thus  it  was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to 
it  again — with  something  of  a  human  love  for  it,  as  if  it 
had  been  sentient  and  had  known  him;  and,  sitting  in  a 
window,  near  her  mother's  picture,  in  the  unused  room 
BO  long  deserted,  wore  away  the  thoughtful  hours. 

Why  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work 
to  where  the  rosy  children  lived?  They  were  not  imme- 
diately suggestive  of  her  loss;  for  they  were  all  girls: 
four  little  sisters.  But  they  were  motherless  like  her — 
and  had  a  father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was 
expected  home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always  dressed 
and  waiting  for  him  at  the  drawing-room  window,  or  in 
the  balcony;  and  when  he  appeared,  her  expectant  face 
lighted  up  with  joy,  while  tne  others  at  the  \v\g\\'«Ya,- 
dow,  and  always  on  the  watch  too,  clapped  i\ie>vc  Vatt^dAt 


262  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  drummed  them  on  the  Bill,  and  called  to  him.  The 
elder  child  would  come  down  to  the  hall,  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the  staira;  and  Florence 
would  see  her  afterwards  sitting  by  his  side,  or  on  his 
knee,  or  hanging  coaxingly  about  his  neck  and  talking 
to  him:  and  though  they  were  always  gay  together  he 
would  often  watcn  her  face,  as  if  he  thought  her  like 
her  mother  that  was  dead.  Florence  would  sometimes 
look  no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into  tears  would  bide 
behind  the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or  would 
hurry  from  the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  return- 
ing; and  her  work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her 
hands  again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty,  years  ago.  It 
had  remained  so  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  and  while 
she  had  been  away  from  home,  this  familv  had  taken 
it;  and  it  was  repaired  and  newly  paintea;  and  there 
were  birds  and  flowers  about  it;  and  it  looked  very  dif- 
ferent from  its  old  self,  But  she  never  thoueht  of  the 
house.    The  children  and  their  father  were  all  in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the 
open  windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse, 
and  cluster  round  the  table;  and  in  the  still  summer 
weather,  the  sound  of  their  childish  voices  and  clear 
laughter  would  come  ringing  across  the  street,  into  the 
drooping  air  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  Then  they 
would  climb  and  clamber  up-stairs  with  him,  and  romp 
about  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group  themselves  at  his  knee, 
a  very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell 
them  some  story.  Or  they  would  come  running  out  into 
the  balcony;  and  then  Florence  would  hide  herself 
quickly,  lest  it  should  check  them  in  their  joy  to  see 
her  in  her  black  dress  sitting  there  alone. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  when  the 
rest  had  gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him — ha^py 
little  housekeeper  she  was  theil! — and  sat  conversing 
with  him,  sometimes  at  the  window,  sometimes  in  the 
room,  until  the  candles  came.  He  made  her  his  com- 
panion, though  she  was  some  years  younger  than 
Florence:  and  she  could  be  as  staid  and  pleasantly  de- 
mure, with  her  little  book  or  work-box,  as  a  woman. 
When  they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her  own  dark 
room  was  not  afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the  time 
came  for  the  child  to  say,  "Good  night,  papa,"  and  go 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2B3 

to  bed,  Florence  would  sob  and  tremble  as  she  raised  her 
face  to  him,  and  could  look  no  more. 

liiough  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before 
going  to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled 
Eim  to  rest  so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low 
soft  broken  strain  of  music,  back  to  that  house.  But 
that  she  ever  thought  of  it,  or  watched  it,  was  a  secret 
which  she  kept  within  her  own  young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence — Florence,  so  ingen- 
uous  and  true — so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had  borne 
her,  and  had  whispered  m  his  last  faint  words— whose 
guileless  heart  was  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  breathed  in  every  accent  of  her  gentle  voice — did 
that  young  breast  hold  any  other  secret?  Yes.  One 
more, 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
room,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and 
approach  her  father's  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, she  would  rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her 
lips,  in  the  yearning  of  her  love.  She  crouched  upon 
the  cold  stone  floor  outside  it,  every  night,  to  listen  even 
for  his  breath;  and  in  her  one  absorbmg  wish  to  be  al- 
lowed to  show  him  some  affection,  to  be  a  consolation 
to  him,  to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance  of  some  ten- 
derness from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  have 
knelt  down  at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  sup- 
plication. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once 
or  twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was  very 
soon  going  on  his  country  journey;  but  he  lived  in  those 
rooms,  and  lived  alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  inquired 
for  her.  Perhaps  he  did  not  even  know  that  she  was  in 
the  house. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence 
was  sitting  at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a 
face  half  laughing  and  half   crying,  to  announce  a  • 
visitor. 

"A  visitor!  To  me,  Susanl"  said  Florence,  looking 
up  in  astonishment. 

"Well,  it  w  a  wonder,  ain't  it  now  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan;  "  but  I  wish  you  had  a  many  visitors,  t  A.o,  m- 
deed,  for  you'd  be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  uvj  ov*»-" 


2ii4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ion  that  the  sooner  you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old 
Skettleees,  miss,  the  better  for  Doth,  I  may  not  wish 
to  live  in  crowds,  Miss  Floy,  but  still  I'm  not  a  oyster." 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her 
young  mistress  than  herself;  and  her  face  showed  it, 

"  But  the  visitor,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  ae  much 
a  laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  lough,  an- 


"  Mr.  Toots!" 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed 
from  it  in  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great  sat- 
isfaction to  Miss  Nipper. 

"  My  own  feelings  exactly.  Miss  FloVj"  said  Susan, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shafeing  her  head. 
"  Immediately  I  see  that  Innocent  in  the  halT,  Mies  Ploy, 
I  burst  out  laughing  first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like 
again  on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
come  up-stairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he 

§  reduced,  announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
oor,  and  walked  in  very  briskly. 

"  How  dy'e  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well  I  thank  you:  how  are  you?" 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows 
in  the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two 
brighter  spirits — had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst 
of  discourse  with  the  view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both 
of  Florence  and  himself.  But  finding  that  he  had  run 
through  his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  injudicious  man- 
ner, by  squandering  the  whole  before  taking  a  chair,  or 
before  Florence  had  uttered  a  word,  or  Iwjfore  he  had  well 
got  in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  begin  again. 

"  How  dy'e  do.  Miss  Dombey?"  said  Mr.  Toots.  *'  I'm 
ve^  well,  I  thank  you;  how  are  you?  " 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  she  was  very 
■  well, 

"I'm  very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a 
chair.  "  Very  well  indeed,  I  am.  I  don't  remember," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  after  reflecting  a  little,  "  that  I  ^ras  ever 
better,  thank  you," 

"  It's  verv  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  taking 
tip  her  work,     "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  265 

Mr.  Toots  responded  with  a  chuckle.  Thinking  that 
might  Ije  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with  a  sigh.  Think- 
ingr  that  might  be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with 
a  chuckle.  Not  thoroughly  pleasiog  himself  with  either 
mode  of  reply,  he  breathed  hard. 

"You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  eaid  Flor- 
ence, obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him 
by  saying  so.     "  He  often  talked  about  you." 

"  On,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots  hastily. 
"Warm,  ain't  it?" 

"  It  is  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"  It  agrees  with  me!"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  don't  think 
I  ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present,  I'm 
obliged  to  you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr. 
Toots  fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence, 

"You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber's,  I  think?"  said 
Florence,  trying  to  help  hira  out. 

"  I  shoxild  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  And  tumbled 
in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for 
at  least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period, 
he  suddenly  floated,  and  said, 

"  Weill  Good  morning.  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Are  you  going?  "  asked  Florence,  rising. 

"I  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  sitting  down  aeain,  most  unexpectedly. 
"  The  fact  is — I  say.  Miss  Donibey  I " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with 
a  quiet  smile,  "  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk 
about  my  brother." 

"  Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr,  Toots,  with 
sympathy  in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless 
face.  "Poor  Dombey!  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  that 
Bui^esB  &  Co, — fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that 
we  used  to  talk  about— would  make  this  suit  of  clothes 
for  such  a  purpose."  Mr.  Toots  was  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing. "  Poor  Dombey!  I  say!  Miss  Dombey!  "  blubbered 
Toots. 

"  Y^,"  said  Florence. 

"  There's  a  friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of 
keepsake.     You  remember  his  remembering  DictgCTveWf^ 

"  Oh  yes!  oh  yes! "  critif  Florence. 


266  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Poor  Dombey!    So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  getting  Beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly 
tumbled  into  the  well  again.  But  a  chuckle  saved  him 
on  the  brink. 

"  I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "Miss  Dombey!  I  could  have 
had  him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given 
him  up:  and  I  would:  but  they  were  glad  to  get 
rid  of  him,  I  think.  If  you'd  like  to  have  him,  he's 
at  the  door.  I  brought  him  on  purpose  for  you.  He  ain't 
a  lady's  dog,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "out  you  wont 
mind  that,  will  you?" 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  pres- 
ently ascertamed  from  looking  down  mto  the  street, 
starmg  through  the  window  of  a  hackney-cabriolet,  into 
which,  foe  conveyance  to  that  spot,  he  had  been  en- 
snared, on  a  false  pretence  of  rats  among  the  straw. 
Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a  lady's  dog  as  dog  might 
be;  and  io  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get  out  presented  an  ai>- 
pearance  sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he  gave  short 
yelps  out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth  and,  overbalancing 
himself  by  the  intensity  of  every  one  of  those  efforts, 
tumbled  down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprung  panting 
up  again,  putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  nad  come  ex- 
press to  a  dispensary  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one 
would  meet  with  on  a  summer's  day;  a  blundering,  ill- 
favored,  clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting 
on  a  wrong  idea  that  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, whom  it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at;  and 
though  he  was  far  from  good-tempered,  and  certainly 
was  not  clever,  and  had  nair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a 
comic  nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a  gruff  voice; 
he  was  dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that  parting 
remembrance  of  him,  and  that  request  that  he  might  be 
taken  care  of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beautiful  of 
his  kind.  9o  dear,  indeed,  was  this  same  ugly  Diogenes, 
and  so  welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jewelled  hand 
of  Mr,  Toots  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  when 
Diogenes,  released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and, 
bouncing  into  the  room  (such  a  business  as  there  was 
first,  to  get  him  out  of  the  cabrioletlj,  dived  under  all 
the  furniture,  and  wound  a  long  iron  chain,  that 
dangled  from  his  neck,  round  legs  of  chairs  and  tables, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2157 

and  then  tugged  at  it  until  his  eyes  became  unnaturally 
visible,  in  consequence  of  their  nearly  starting  out  of 
his  head;  and  when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who 
affected  familiarity;  and  went  pell-mell  at  Towlinaon, 
morally  convinced  that  he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  had 
barked  at  round  the  comer  all  bis  life  and  had  never 
seen  yet;  Florence  was  as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had 
been  a  miracle  of  discretion. 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his  pres- 
ent, and  w£i8  so  deliglited  to  see  Florence  bending  down 
over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her  little 
delicate  hand — Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it  from  the 
first  moment  of  their  acquaintance — that  he  felt  it  diffi- 
cult to  take  leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  a 
much  longer  time  in  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  if  he 
had  not  been  assisted  by  Diogenes  himself^  who  sud- 
denly took  it  into  his  head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to 
make  short  runs  at  him  with  his  mouth  open.  Not  ex- 
actly seeing  his  way  to  the  end  of  these  demonstrations, 
and  sensible  that  they  placed  the  pantaloons  constructed 
by  the  art  of  Burgess  &  Co.  in  jeopardy,  Mr.  Toots,  with 
chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the  door:  by  which,  after  look- 
ing in  again  two  or  three  times,  without  any  object  at 
ail,  and  being  on  each  occasion  greeted  with  a  fresh 
run  from  Diogenes,  he  finally  took  himself  off  and  got 
away, 

"Come,  then,  Di!  Dear  Di!  Make  friends  with  your 
new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other,  Di!"  said  Flor- 
ence, fondling  his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough  and 
fruff,  as  if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear  that 
ropped  upon  it,  and  his  dog's  heart  melted  as  it  fell, 
put  his  nose  up  to  her  face,  and  swore  fidelity, 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence.  He 
subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheerfully, 
and  devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet  was  im- 
mediately provided  for  him  in  a  comer;  and  when  he 
had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  he  went  to  the  window 
where  Florence  was  sitting,  looking  on,  rose  up  on  his 
hind  legs,  with  his  awkward,  fore  paws  on  her  shoulders, 
licked  ner  face  and  hands,  nestled  his  great  head 
against  her  heart,  and  wagged  his  tail  till  he  was  tired. 
Finally,  Di<^enes  coiled  himself  up  at  her  feet  aaA.vj«tA 
to  sleep. 


sua  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^ 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nervous  in  regard  of  dogs, 
and  felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her 
skirts  carefully  collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  crose- 
ing  a  brook  on  stepping-stones;  also  to  utter  little 
screams  and  stand  up  on  cnairs  when  Diogenes  stretched 
himself;  she  was  in  her  own  manner  affected  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  could  not  see  Florence  so 
alive  to  the  attachment  and  society  of  this  rude  friend 
of  little  Paul's  without  some  mental  comments  there- 
upon that  brought  the  water  to  her  eyes.  Mr.  Dombey, 
as  a  part  of  her  reflections,  may  have  been,  in  the  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  connected  with  the  dog;  but,  at  any 
rate,  after  observing  Diogenes  and  his  mistress  all  the 
evening,  and  after  exerting  herself  with  much  good  will 
to  provide  Diogenes  a  bed  in  an  ante-chamber  outside 
his  mistress's  door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Florence,  be- 
fore leaving  her  for  the  night: 

"Your  pa's  a  going  off,  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Susan?" 

"Yes,  miss;  that's  the  orders.    Early." 

"Do  you  know,"'  asked  Florence,  without  looking  at 
her,  "where  papa  is  going,  Susan?" 

"  Not  exactly,  miss.  He's  going  to  meet  that  precious 
major  first,  and  I  must  say  if  I  was  acquainted  with 
any  major  myself  (which  Heavens  forbid),  it  shouldn't 
be  a  blue  one!" 

"  Hush,  Susan!"  urged  Florence  gentlj. 

"Well,  Miss  Floy,'  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was 
full  of  burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even 
less  than  usual,  "  I  can't  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while 
I  was  a  Christian,  although  humble,  I  would  have  natu- 
ral-colored friends,  or  none." 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and  had  gleaned 
down-stairs,  that  Mrs.  Chick  had  proposed  the  major 
for  Mr.  Dombey's  companion,  ana  that  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  some  hesitation,  had  invited  him. 

"Talk  of  him  being  a  change,  indeed! "observed  Miss 
Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless  contempt,  "  If  he's  a 
change  give  me  a  constancj^." 

"  Good  night,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

"Good  night,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy." 

Her  tone  of  commiseration  smote  the  cnord  so  often 
roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  any 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  209 

one  looked  on.  Florence  left  alune,  laid  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling 
heart,  held  free  communication  with  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a  wet  night;  and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  pat- 
tering and  dro|>ping  with  a  wearied  Bound.  A  Bluggish 
wind  was  blowing,  and  went  moaning  round  the  houBu, 
as  if  it  were  in  pain  or  grief.  A  shrill  noise  quivered 
through  the  trees.  While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew  late, 
and  dreary  midnight  tolled  out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  years — not 
yet  fourteen— and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an 
hour  in  the  great  house  where  Death  nad  lately  made 
its  own  tremendous  devastation,  might  have  set  an 
older  fancy  brooding  on  vague  terrors.  But  her  inno- 
cent imagination  was  too  full  of  one  theme  to  admit 
them.  Nothing  wandered  in  her  thoughts  but  love — a 
wandering  love,  indeed,  and  cast  away — hut  turning  al- 
ways to  her  father. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the 
striking  of  the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one 
thought,  or  diminished  its  interest.  Her  recollections 
of  the  dear  dead  boy — and  they  were  nev§r  absent — 
were  itself;  the  same  thing.  And  oh,  to  be  shut  out:  to 
be  so  lost:  never  to,  have  looked  into  her  father's  face 
or  touched  him,  since  that  hour! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had 
gone  yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pil- 
grimage to  his  door.  It  would  have  been  a  strange  sad 
sight,  to  see  "her  now,  stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs 
through  the  thick  gloom,  and  stopping  at  it  with  a  beat- 
ing heart,  and  blinded  eyes,  and  hair  that  fell  down 
loosely  and  unthought  of:  and  touching  it  outside  witli 
her  wet  cheek.  But  the  night  covered  it,  and  no  one 
knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it 
stood  open,  though  by  but  a  nair's-breadth:  and  there 
was  a  light  within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid  child 
— and  sne  yielded  to  it — was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her 
next,  to  go  back,  and  to  enter;  and  this  second  impulse 
held  her  m  irresolution  on  the  staircase. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  ti\a,t  c\aTt\^ 
there  seemed  to  oe  hope.     There  was  encouTageTaeiA  ve>. 


a70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

seeing  a  ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through  the 
dark  stem  doorway,  and  falling  in  a  thread  upon  the 
marble  floor.  She  turned  back,  hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  but  urged  on  by  the  love  witnin  her,  and  the 
trial  they  had  undergone  together,  but  not  shared:  and 
with  her  hands  a  little  raised  and  trembling,  glided  in.    ■ 

Her  father  sat  at  his  old  table  in  the  mitidle  room. 
He  had  been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying 
others,  and  the  latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  nim. 
The  rain  dripped  heavily  upon  the  glass  panes  in  the 
outer  room,  where  he  had  so  often  watched  poor  Paul, 
a  baby;  and  the  low  complainings  of  the  wind  were 
beard  without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
table,  so  immersed  in  thought  that  a  far  heavier  tread, 
than  the  light  foot  of  his  child  could  make,  might  have 
failed  to  rouse  him.  His  face  was  turned  towards  her. 
By  the  waning  lamp,  and  at  that  haggard  hour,  it 
looked  worn  and  dejected;  and  in  the  utter  loneliness 
surrounding  him  there  was  an  appeal  to  Florence  that 
struck  home. 

"  Papa!  papa!    Speak  to  me,  dear  papa! " 

He  started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  from  his  seat. 
She  was  close  before  him  with  extended  arms,  but  he 
fell  back. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said,  sternly,  "Why  do 
you  come  here?    What  has  frightened  you?" 

If  anything  had  frightenea  her,  it  was  the  face  he 
turned  upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast 
of  his  young  daughter  froze  before  it,  asd  she  stood 
and  looked  at  him  as  if  stricken  into  atone. 

There  was  not  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it. 
There  was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parentaf  recogni- 
tion, or  relenting  in  it.  There  was  a  change  in  it,  out 
not  of  that  kind.  The  old  indifference  and  cold  con- 
straint bad  given  place  to  something:  what,  she  never 
thought  anddid  not  dare  to  think,  and  yet  she  felt  it  in 
its  force,  and  knew  it  well  without  a  name:  that  as  it 
looked  upon  her,  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  on  her  head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  hia  son, 
in  health  and  life?  Did  he  look  upon  his  own  success- 
ful rival  in  that  son's  affection?  Did  a  mad  jealousy  and 
withered  pride  poison  sweet  remembrances  that  should 
have  endeared  and  made  her  precious  to  him?    Could  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  271 

be  possible  that  it  was  gall  to  him  to  look  upon  her  in 
her  beauty  and  her  promise:  thinking  of  nis  infant 
boyt 

Florence  had  do  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick  to 
know  when  it  is  spumed  and  hopeless:  and  hope  died 
out  of  hers,  as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father's  face. 

"  I  ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frightened?  Is  there 
anything  the  matter,  that  you  come  here?  " 

"  I  came,  papa — " 

"  Against  my  wishes.    Why?" 

She  saw  he  Knew  why:  it  wm  written  broadly  on  his 
face:  and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one 
prolonged  low  cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It 
has  faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence. 
It  may  pass  as  quickly  from  his  brain^  as  he  believes, 
but  it  18  there.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come! 

He  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and 
loose,  and  scarcely  closed  upon  her. 

"You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  taking  up  the 
light,  and  leading  her  towards  the  door,  "and  want 
rest.  We  all  want  rest.  Go,  Florence.  You  have  been 
dreaming." 

The  dream  she  had  had  was  over  then,  Qod  help  her! 
and  she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

"I  will  remain  here  to  light  vou  up  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  is  yours,  above  there,  said  her  father, 
slowly.     "  You  are  its  mistress  now.    Good  night! " 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered, 
"Good  night,  dear  papa,"  and  silently  ascended.  Once 
she  looked  back  as  if  she  would  .have  returned  to  him, 
but  for  fear.  It  was  a  momentary  thought,  too  hopeless 
to  encourage;  and  her  father  stood  there  with  the  light 
— hard,  unresponsive,  motionless— until  the  fluttenng 
dress  of  his  fair  child  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof:  the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door:  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their 
melancholy  sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come! 

The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same 
place,  winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  Yiet  \iTCi^e.T 
in  her  arms.    It  did  not  move  his  heart  tovi&tfta  \v« 


■m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

now,  it  steeled  it:  but  he  went  into  his  room,  and  locked 
bis  door,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  cried  for  bis 
lost  boy. 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  bis  post,  asd  waiting 
for  his  little  mistress. 
"OhDi!  OhdearDil  Love  me  for  his  sakel" 
Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn't 
care  how  much  he  showed  it.  So  he  made  himself 
vastly  ridiculous  by  performing  a  variety  of  uncouth 
bounces  in  tbe  aute-chamber,  and  concluded,  when 
poor  Florence  was  at  last  asleep,  and  dreaming  of  the 
rosy  children  opposite,  bv  scratching  open  her  bedroom 
door:  rolling  up  his  bed  into  a  pillow:  lying  down  on 
the  boards  at  the  full  length  of  his  tether,  with  his  head 
towards  her:  and  looking  lazily  at  her,  upside  down, 
out  of  the  topg  of  his  eyes,  until  from  winking  and 
winking  he  fell  asleep  himself,  and  dreamed,  with  giuff 
barks,  of  his  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WALTER   GOES   AWAY. 

The  Wooden  Midshipman  at  the  Instmmeat-maker'B 
<loor,  like  the  hard-hearted  little  midshipman  "that  he 
was,  remained  supremely  indifferent  to  Walter's  going 
away,  even  when  the  very  last  day  of  his  sojourn  in 
the  back-parlor  was  on  the  decline.  With  his  quadrant 
at  his  round  black  knob  of  an  eye,  and  bis  figure  in  its 
old  attitude  of  indomitable  alacrity,  the  midshipman 
displayed  his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  advantage, 
and,  ausorbed  in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sympawy 
with  worldly  concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of 
circumstances,  that  a  dry  day  covered  bim  with  dust, 
and  a  misty  day  peppered  him  with  little  bits  of  soot, 
and  a  wet  day  orightenod  up  his  tarnished  uniform  for 
a  moment,  and  a  very  hot  day  blistered  him;  but  other- 
wise he  was  a  callous,  obdurate,  conceited  midshipman, 
intent  on  his  own  discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for 
what  went  on  about  him,  terrestrially,  as  Archimedes 
at  the  taking  of  Syracuse. 


t,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  273 

Such  a  midshipman  he  seemed  to  be,  at  least,  in  the 
then  position  of  domestic  affairs.  Walter  eyed  him 
kindly  many  a  time  in  passing  in  and  Out;  and  poor  old 
Sol,  when  Walter  was  not  there,  would  come  and  lean 
against  the  door-post,  resting  his  weary  wig  as  near  the 
sEoe-buckles  of  the  guardian  genius  of  his  trade  and 
shop  as  he  could.  But  no  fierce  idol  with  a  mouth  from 
ear  to  ear,  and  a  murderous  visage  made  of  parrot's 
feathers,  was  ever  more  indifferent  to  the  appeals  of  its 
savage  votaries  than  was  the  midshipman  to  these 
marks  of  attachment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old 
bedroom,  up  among  the  parapets  and  chimney-pots, 
and  thought  that  one  more  night  already  darkening 
would  close  his  acquaintance  with  it,  perhaps  for  ever. 
Dismantled  of  his  little  stock  of  books  and  pictures,  it 
looked  coldly  and  reproachfully  on  him  for  his  deser- 
tion, and  had  already  a  foreshadowing  upon  it  of  its 
coming  strangeness.  "A  few  hours  more,"  thought 
Walter,  "and  no  dream  I  ever  had  here  when  I  was  a 
school-boy  will  be  so  little  mine  as  this  old  room.  The 
dream  may  come  back  in  my  sleep,  and  I  may  return 
waking  to  this  place,  it  may  be:  but  the  dream  at  least 
will  serve  no  other  master,  and  the  room  may  have  a 
score,  and  every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect,  mis- 
use it." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little 
back-parlor,  where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself;  for 
Captain  Cuttle,  considerate  in  his  roughness,  stayed 
away  against  hia  will,  purposely  that  they  should  have 
some  talk  together  unobserved:  so  Walter,  newly  re- 
turned home  from  his  last  day's  bustle,  descended 
briskly  to  bear  him  company. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said  gaily,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old 
man's  shoulder,  "what  shall  I  send  you  home  from 
Barbadoes? " 

"Hope,  m_y  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet 
again  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of 
that  as  you  can." 

"So  I  will,  uncle:  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and 
ni  not  be  chary  of  it!  And  as  to  lively  turtles,  and 
limes  for  Captain  Cuttle's  puncli.  and  preserves  for  you 
on  Sundays,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  why  I'll  send  Y'^'a 
shiploads,  uncle — when  I'm  rich  enough.' 


Sr4  DOMBEY  AND  SOK 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

"That's  nght,  uncle!"  cried  Walter,  merrily,  and 
clapping  him  half  a  dozen  times  more  upon  the  shoul- 
der. "You  cheer  up  me!  I'll  cheer  up  you!  We'll  bo 
as  gay  as  larks  to-morrow  morning,  uncle,  and  we'll 
fly  as  high!  As  to  my  anticipations,  they  are  singing 
out  of  sight  now," 

"Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  the  old  man,  "I'll 
do  my  best,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"  And  your  best,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  with  his  pleas- 
ant laugh,  "  is  the  best  best  that  I  know.  You'll  not  for- 
get what  you're  to  send  me,  uncle?" 

"No,  Wally,  no,"  replied  the  old  man;  "even'thingi 
hear  about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone, 
poor  lamb,  I'll  write.  I  fear  it  won't  be  much,  thoii^h, 
Wally." 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  jou  what,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  I  have  just  been  up  there," 

"Ay,  ay,  ay?"  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  and  his  spectacles  with  them. 

"  Not  to  see  her,"  said  Walter,  "  though  I  could  have 
seen  her,  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  asked,  Mr.  Dombey  being 
out  of  town:  but  to  say  a  parting  word  to  Susan.  I 
thought  I  might  venture  to  do  that,  you  know,  under 
the  circumstances,  and  remembering  when  I  saw  Miss 
Dombey  last." 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  him- 
self from  the  temporary  aostraction. 

"So  I  saw  her,  pursued  Walter.  "Susan,  I  mean: 
and  I  told  her  I  was  off  and  away  to-morrow.  And  I 
said,  uncle,  that  you  had  always  had  an  interest  in  Miss 
Dombey  since  that  night  she  was  here,  and  always 
wished  her  well  and  happy,  and  always  would  be  proud 
and  elad  to  serve  her  m  the  least:  I  thought  I  might 
say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  tone  as 
before. 

"  And  I  added,"  pursued  Walter,  "  that  if  she — Susan, 
I  mean — could  ever  let  you  know,  either  throueh  herself 
or  Mrs.  Hichards,  or  anybody  else  who  might  be  coming 
this  way.  that  Miss  Dombey  was  well  and  happy,  you 
would  take  it  very  kindly,  and  would  write  80  much  to 
me,  and  I  should  take  it  very  kindly  too.      There! 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  275 

Upon  my  word,  uncle,"  said  Walterj  "  I  Bcarcely  Blept 
all  last  night  through  thinking:  of  doing  this;  ana  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  when  I  was  out,  whether  to  do  it 
or  not;  ana  yet  i  am  sure  it  is  the  true  feeling  of  my 
heart,  and  I  should  have  been  quite  miserable  after- 
wards if  I  had  not  relieved  it." 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he 
said,  and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"So,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  "I 
mean  Miss  Dombey  now — and  perhaps  you  may,  you 
know! — tell  her  how  much  I  felt  for  ner;  how  much  I 
used  to  think  of  her  when  I  was  liere;  how  I  spoke  of 
her,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last  night 
before  I  went  away.  Tell  her  that  I  said  I  never  could 
forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her  beautiful  face,  or  her 
sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better  than  all.  And 
as  I  didn't  take  them  from  a  woman's  feet,  or  a  young 
lady's:  only  a  little  innocent  child's,"  said  Walter;  '•teU 
her  if  you  don't  mind,  uncle,  that  I  kept  those  shoes — 
she'll  remember  how  often  they  fell  off,  that  night — and 
took  them  away  with  me  as  a  remembrance!" 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the  door 
in  one  of  Walter's  trunks.  A  porter  carrying  off  his 
baggage  on  a  truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on  board 
the  Son  and  Heir  had  got  possession  of  them:  and 
wheeled  them  away  under  the  very  eye  of  the  insensi- 
ble Midshipman  before  their  owner  had  well  finished 
speaking. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused 
his  insensibility  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For, 
under  his  eye  at  tlie  same  moment,  accurately  within 
his  range  of  observation,  coming  full  into  tlie  sphere  of 
his  startled  and  intensely  wide-awake  lookout,  were 
Florence  and  Susan  Nipper:  Florence  looking  up  into 
his  face  half  timidly,  and  receiving  the  whole  shock  of 
his  wooden  ogling! 

More  than  this,  they  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed 
in  at  the  parlor  door  neiore  they  were  observed  by  any- 
body but  the  Midshipman.  And  Walter,  having  his 
hstCK.  to  the  door,  would  have  known  nothing  of  their 
apparition  even  then  but  for  seeing  his  unde  spring 
out  of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly  tumble  over  another. 

"Why  unclel"  exclaimed  Walter.  "WhoA'a  Moa 
matter? " 


276  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Old  Solomon  replied,  "Miss  Dombey!" 

"'Ib  it  possible!"  cried  Walter,  looking  round  and 
starting  up  in  his  turn.     "  Here! " 

Why  it  was  so  possible  and  so  actual,  that,  while  the 
words  Were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him:  took 
Uncle  Sol's  snuflf-colored  lappels,  one  in  each  hand; 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek;  and  turning,  gave  her  hand  to 
Walter  with  a  simple  truth  and  earnestness  that  was 
her  own,  and  no  one  else's  in  the  world! 

"Going  away,  Walter!"  said  Florence. 

"Yes,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  replied,  but  not  so  hopefully 
as  he  endeavored:  "  I  have  a  voyage  before  me. 

"  And  your  uncle,"  said  Florence,  looking  back  at 
Solomon.  "  He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  I  am  sure.  Ah! 
I  see  he  is!    Dear  Walter,  I  am  veir  sorry  too." 

"Goodness  knows,"  exclaimed  Stiss  Nipper;  "there's 
a  many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a  object, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  as  a  overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her 
weight  in  gold,  and  if  a  knowledge  of  black  slavery 
should  be  required,  them  Blimbers  is  the  very  people 
for  tbe  sitiwation." 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and 
after  looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a  little 
black  tea-pot  that  was  set  forth  with  the  usual  homely 
service  on  the  table,  shook  her  head  and  a  tin  canister, 
and  began  unasked  to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  meantime  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the 
Instrument-maker,  who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as 
surprise.  "So  grown!"  said  old  Sol.  "So  improved! 
And  yet  not  altered!    Just  the  same! " 

"Indeed!"  said  Florence. 

"  Ye — yes,"  returned  old  Sol,  nibbing  his  hands  slowly, 
and  considering  the  matter  half  aloud,  as  something 
pensive  in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrested  his 
attention,  "Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  younger 
face  too! " 

"You  remember  me,"  said  Florence  with  a  smile, 
"  and  what  a  little  creature  I  was  then?." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  returned  the  Instrument- 
maker,  "  how  could  I  forget  you,  often  as  I  have  thought 
of  you  and  heard  of  you  since!  At  the  very  moment, 
indeed,  when  you  came  in,  Wally  was  talking  about 
you  to  me,  ana  leaving  messages  lor  you,  and— ' 

"Was  he?"  said  Florence.     "Thank  you,  Walter! 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  277 

Oh  thank  you,  Walter!  I  was  afraid  you  mi^ht  be  going 
away  and  hardly  thinting  of  me;"  and  again  she  gave 
him  her  little  hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  that  Wal- 
ter held  it  for  some  moments  in  his  own,  ana  could  not 
bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold  it  as  he  might  have  held  it 
once,  nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams 
of  his  boyhood  that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  even 
lately,  and  confused  him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken 
shapes.  The  purity  and  innocence  of  her  endearing 
manner,  and  its  perfect  trustfulness,  and  the  undisguised 
regard  for  him  tnat  lay  so  deeply  seated  in  her  constant 
eyes,  and  glowed  upon  her  fair  face  through  the  smile 
that  shaded — for  alas!  it  was  a  smile  too  sad  to 
brighten— it,  were  not  of  their  romantic  race.  They 
brought  hack  to  his  thoughts  the  early  death-bed  he 
had  seen  her  tending,  and  the  love  the  child  had  borne 
her;  and  on  the  wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed 
to  rise  up,  far  above  his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  aJid 
serener  air. 

"  I — I  am  afraid  I  must  call  you  Walter's  uncle,  sir," 
said  Florence  to  the  old  man,  "if  you'll  let  me." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  old  Sol  "Let  you! 
Good  gracious!" 

"We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of 
you,"  said  Florence,  glancing  round,  and  sighing  gently. 
"The  nice  old  parlor!  Just  the  same!  How  well  I 
recollect  it!" 

CMd  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,  and 
then  rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and 
said  below  his  breath,  "Ah!  time,  time,  time!" 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  Susan  Nip- 
per skilfully  impounded  two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from 
the  cupboard,  and  awaited  the  drawing  of  the  tea  with 
a  thoughtful  air. 

"  I  want  to  tell  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  laying 
her  hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man's  as  it  rested  on  tba 
table,  to  bespeak  his  attention,  "  something  that  I  am 
anxious  about.  He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he 
will  allow  me — not  to  take  ^Valter's  place,  for  that  I 
couldn't  do,  but  to  be  his  true  friend  and  help  him  if 
I  ever  can  while  Walter  is  away,  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you?  May  I,  VlaWftx^a 
uncle?" 


278  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  Instrument-maker,  without  Bpeaking,  put  her 
baud  to  his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with 
her  arms  crossed,  in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which 
she  had  voted  herself,  hit  one  end  of  lier  bonnet-strings, 
and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sky- 
light. 

"You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,"  said  Florence, 
"when  I  can;  and  you  will  tell  me  everything  about 
yourself  and  Walter;  and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from 
Susan  when  she  comes  and  I  do  not,  hut  will  confide 
in  us,  and  trust  us,  and  rely  upon  us.  And  you'll  try 
to  let  us  be  a  comfoi-t  to  you?  Will  you,  Walter's 
uncle?" 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading 
eyes,  the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  nis  arm 
made  the  more  winning  by  a  child's  respect  and  honor 
for  his  age,  that  gave  to  all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and 
modest  hesitation — these,  and  her  natural  earnestness, 
so  overcame  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker,  that  lie 
only  answered: 

"Wallv!  say  a  word  for  me,  my  dear.  I'm  very 
grateful. 

"  No,  Walter,"  returned  Florence  with  her  quiet  smile. 
"  Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you  please.  I  understand  him 
very  well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without 
you,  dear  Walter." 

The  regretful  tone  in  which  she  said  these  latter  words 
touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest. 

"  Miss  Plorence,"  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  recover 
the  cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking 
with  his  uncle,  "  I  know  no  more  than  my  uncle  what 
to  say  in  acknowledgment  of  such  kindness,  I  am  sure. 
But  what  could  I  say,  after  all,  if  I  had  the  power  of 
talking  for  an  hour,  except  that  it  is  like  you? 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a  new  part  of  her  bonnet 
string,  and  nodded  at  the  skylight,  m  approval  of  the 
sentiment  expressed, 

"Oh:  hut  Walter,"  said  Florence,  "there  is  some- 
thing that  I  wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and 
you  must  call  me  Florence  if  you  please,  and  not  speak 
like  a  stranger. " 

"Like  a  stranger!"  returned  Walter.  "No.  I 
couldn't  speak  so.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  I  couldn't  feel 
like  one." 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  270 

"  At,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  I  mean. 
For  Walter,"  added  Florence,  bursting  into  tears,  "he 
liked  you  very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he 
was  fond  of  you,  and  said  '  Remember  Walter!'  and  if 
you'll  be  a  brother  to  me  Walter,  now  that  he  is  gone 
and  I  have  none  on  earth,  I'll  be  your  sister  all  my  life, 
and  thinfe  of  you  like  one  wherever  we  maybe!  This 
is  what  I  wished  to  say,  dear  Walter,  but  I  cannot  say 
it  as  I  would,  because  my  heart  is  full." 

And  in  its  fullness  and  its  sweet  simplicity  she  held 
out  both  her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stooped 
down  and  touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk 
nor  turned  away,  nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked 
up  at  him  with  confidence  and  truth.  In  that  one  mo- 
ment, every  shadow  of  doubt  or  agitation  passed  away 
from  Walter's  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  responded 
to  her  innocent  appeal  beside  the  dead  child's  bed;  and, 
in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen  there,  pledged  him- 
self to  cherish  and  protect  her  very  image,  in  nis  ban- 
ishment, with  brotherly  regard;  to  garner  up  her  simple 
faith,  inviolate;  and  hold  himself  degraded  if  he 
breathed  upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own 
breast  when  she  gave  it  to  nim, 

Susan  Nipper,  who  had  bitten  both  her  bonnet  strings 
at  once,  and  imparted  a  great  deal  of  private  emotion 
to  the  skylight,  during  this  transaction,  now  changed 
the  subject  oy  inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took 
sugar;  and  being  enlightened  on  these  points  poured 
out  the  tea.  They  al!  four  gathered  socially  about  the 
little  table,  and  took  tea  under  that  young  lady's  active 
superintendence;  and  the  presence  of  Florence  in  the 
back  parlor,  brightened  the  Tartar  frigate  on  the  wall. 

Half  an  hour  ago,  Walter,  for  his  life,  would  have 
hardly  called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now 
when  she  entreated  him.  He  could  think  of  her  being 
there  without  a  lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  not  come.  He  could  calmly 
think  how  beautiful  she  was,  how  full  of  promise,  what 
a  home  some  happy  man  would  find  in  such  a  heart  one 
day.  He  could  reflect  upon  his  own  place  in  that  heart, 
with  pride;  and  with  a  brave  determination^  if  not  to 
deserve  it--he  still  thought  that  far  above  him — never 
to  deserve  it  less. 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  havelaoverei  tovkA 


2fi0  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  haads  of  Susan  Nipi>er  when  she  made  the  tea,  en- 
Kendering  the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back  par- 
lor during  its  discussion.  Some  counter-influence  must 
surely  have  hovered  round  the  hands  of  Uncle  Sol's 
chronometer,  and  moved  them  faster,  than  the  Tartar 
frigate  ever  went  before  the  wind.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  visitors  had  a  coach  in  waiting  at  a  quiet  comer  not 
far  off;  and  the  chronometer,  on  oeing  mcidentallv  re- 
ferred to,  gave  Buch  a  positive  opinion  that  it  had  Deen 
waiting  a  long  time,  that  it  was  mipossible  to  doubt  the 
fact,  especialR^  when  stated  on  such  unimpeachable  au- 
thority. If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be  hanged  by 
his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed  that  the  chro- 
nometer was  too  fast,  by  the  least  fraction  of  a  second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all 
that  she  had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  com- 
pact. Uncle  Sol  attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of 
the  wooden  Midshipman,  and  there  resigned  her  to 
"Walter,  who  was  ready  to  escort  her  and  Susan  Nipper 
to  the  coach. 

"Walter,"  said  Florence  by  the  way,  "I  have  been 
afraid  to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will 
be  absent  very  long?  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "  I  don't  know.  I  fear  so. 
Mr.  Dombey  signified  as  much,  I  thought,  when  he  ap- 
pointed me." 

"Is  it  a  favor,  Walter?"  inquired  Florence,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

"  The  appointment?  "  returned  Walter. 

"Yes." 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered 
in  the  affinnative,  but  iiis  face  answered  liefore  bis  lips 
rould,  and  Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  under- 
stand its  reply. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a  favorite  with 
papa,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  replied  Walter,  smiling,  "  why 
I  should  he." 

"  No  reason,  Walter! " 

"There  v^as  no  reason,"  said  Walter,  understanding 
wliat  she  meant.  "  Tliere  are  many  people  employetl  in 
tlie  house.  Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  ayoung  man  like 
mo.  there's  a  wide  space  of  separation.  If  I  do  my  duty, 
I  do  what  I  ought,  and  do  no  more  than  all  the  rest." 


IQri^i 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  281 

Had  Florence  any  misgiviftg  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious,  any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indis- 
tinct and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  nic^ht 
when  she  had  gone  down  to  her  father's  room,  that 
Walter's  accidental  interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge 
of  her,  might  have  involved  him  in  that  powerful  dis- 
pleasure and  dislikeP  Had  Walter  any  such  idea,  or  any 
Budden  thought  that  it  was  in  her  mind  at  that  moment? 
Neither  of  them  hinted  at  it.  Neither  of  them  spoke  at 
all,  for  some  short  time,  Susan,  walking  on  the  other 
side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply;  and  certainly 
Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  travelled  in  tnat  direction,  and 
very  conndently  too. 

"  You  may  come  hack  very  soon,"  said  Florence,  "per- 
haps, Walter." 

"I  may  come  back,"  said  Walter,  "an  old  man,  and 
find  you  an  old  lady.    But  I  hope  for  better  things." 

"  Papa,"  said  Florence  after  a  moment,  "  will — will 
recover  from  his  grief,  and — speak  more  freely  to  me  one 
day^  perhaps;  and  if  he  should,  I  will  tell  him  how  much 
I  wish  to  see  you  hack  again,  and  ask  him  to  recall  you 
for  my  sake.' 

There  was  a  touching  modulation  in  these  words  about 
her  father  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  her 
without  speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was; 
but  Florence  held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and 
then  he  found  there  was  a  little  packet  in  her  own. 

"Walter,"  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her 
affectionate  eyes,  "  like  you,  I  hope  for  better  things. 
I  will  pray  for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive. 
I  made  this  little  gift  for  Paul.  Pray  take  it  with  my 
love,  and  do  not  look  at  it  until  you  are  gone  away.  And 
now,  God  bless  you.  Waiter!  never  forget  me.  You  arc 
my  brother,  dear! " 

He  was  glad  that  Susan  Nipper  came  between  them, 
or  he  might  have  left  her  with  a  sorrowful  remembrance 
of  him.  He  was  glad  too  that  she  did  not  look  out  of 
the  coach  £^in,but  waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead, 
as  long  as  he  could  see  it. 

In  spite  of  her  request,  he  could  not  help  opening  the 
packet  that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  little 
purse:  and  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  \ua  sOoaeace 


283  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in  strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  re- 
ceive the  captain,  who  was  already  at  the  door:  having 
turned  out  earlier  than  was  necessary,  in  order  to  get  un- 
der weigh  while  Mrs.  MacStinper  was  yet  slumbering. 
The  captain  pretended  to  be  in  tip-top  spirit3,and  brought 
a  very  smoky  tongue  in  one  of  the  pocketa  of  the  broad 
blue  coat  for  breakfast, 

"And  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  when  they  took  their 
seats  at  table,  "  if  your  uncle's  the  man  I  think  him,  he'U 
bring  out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present 
occiision." 

"  No,  no,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  No!  That 
shall  be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again." 

"  Well  said!  "  cried  the  captain.     "  Hear  him!" 

"There  it  lies,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "down  in  the  little 
cellar,  covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebB.  There  may  be 
dirt  and  cobwebs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before 
it  sees  the  light," 

"Hear  him!"  cried  the  captain.  "Good  moralitr! 
Wal'r  my  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should 
go,  and  when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it. 
Overhaul  the — Well,"  said  the  captain  on  second 
thoughts,  "  I  an't  quite  certain  where  that's  to  be  found; 
but  when  found,  make  a  note  of,  Sol  Gills,  heave  a- 
head  again!" 

"  But  there,  or  somewhere,  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wall? 
comes  back  to  claim  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "That'  all 
I  meant  to  say." 

"And  well  said  too,"  returned  the  captain;  "  and  if 
we  three  don't  crack  that  bottle  in  company,  I'll  give 
you  two  leave  to  drink  my  allowance! " 

Notwithstanding  the  captain's  excessive  joviality,  he 
made  but  a  poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he 
tried  very  hard,  when  anybody  looked  at  nim,  to  appear 
as  if  he  were  eating  with  a  vast  appetite.  He  was  ter- 
ribly afraid,  likewise,  of  being  left  alone  with  either 
uncle  or  nephew;  appearing  to  consider  that  his  only 
chance  of  safety  as  to  keeping  up  appearances,  was  in 
their  being  always  three  together.  This  terror  on  the 
part  of  the  captain  reduced  him  to  such  ingenious  eva- 
sions as  running  to  the  door  when  Solomon  went  to  put  his 
coat  on,  under  pretence  of  having  seen  an  extraordinary 
hackney-coach  pass:  and  darting  out  into  the  road  when 
Walter  went  up-stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  283 

feint  of  smelling  fire  in  a  neighboring  chimney.  These 
artifices  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  un- 
inspired observer. 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedi- 
tion up-stairs,  and  was  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to 
the  little  parlor,  when  he  saw  a  faded  face  he  knew 
looking  in  at  the  door,  and  darted  towards  it. 

"Mr.  Carker!"  cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of 
John  Carker  the  junior.  "Pray  come  im  This  is  kind 
of  you  to  he  here  so  early  to  say  good  bv  to  me.  You 
knew  how  glad  it  would  make  me  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  once,  before  going  away,  I  cannot  gay  how  glad 
I  am  to  have  this  opportunity.     Pray  come  in." 

"■Itisnot  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again,  Wal- 
ter," returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invita- 
tion, "and  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  too.  I  may 
venture  to  speak  to  you,  and  to  take  you  by  the  hano, 
on  the  eve  or  separation.  I  shall  not  have  to  resist  your 
frank  approaches,  Walter,  anymore." 

There  was  a  melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  it, 
that  showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friend- 
ship for  his  thoughts  even  in  that. 

'*  Ah,  Mr,  Carker! "  returned  Walter.  "  Why  did  you 
resist  them?  You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but  good, 
I  am  very  sure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  there  were  aiiy  good,"  he 
said,  "  I  could  do  on  this  earth,  I  would  do  it,  ^^Iter,  for 
you.  The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day,  has  been  at 
once  happiness  and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure 
has  outweighed  the  pain,  I  know  that,  now,  by  know- 
ing what  I  lose." 

"Come in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with 
my  good  old  uncle,"  urged  \yalter,  "I  have  often  talked 
to  hmi  about  you,  and  ne  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he 
hears  from  me.  I  have  not,"  said  Walter,  noticing  his 
hesitation,  and  speaking  with  embarrassment  himself: 
"  I  have  not  told  nim  anything  about  our  last  conversa- 
tion, Mr,  Carker;  not  even  him,  believe  me." 

The  grey  Junior  pressed  his  hand,  and  tears  rose  in 
his  eyes. 

"  If  I  ever  make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,"  he 
returned,  "it  will  be  that  I  may  hear  tidings  of  you. 
Rely  on  n^  not  wronging  your  forbearance  and  coiv^\A- 
eratioD.     It  would  be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  teA\  'h\nv  a\\  "Onti 


284  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

truth,  before  I  sought  a  word  of  confidence  from  him. 
But  I  have  no  friend  or  acquaintance  except  you:  aud 
even  for  your  sake,  am  little  likely  to  make  any." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Walter,  "  you  had  suffered  me  to  be 
your  friend  indeed.  I  always  wished  it,  Mr,  Carker,  as 
you  know;  but  never  half  so  much  as  now,  when  we  are 
going  to  part." 

"It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  "that  you  have 
been  the  f  riena  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I  have 
avoided  you  most,  my  heart  inclined  the  most  towards 
you,  and  was  fullest  of  you,     Walter,  good  by! " 

"Good  by,  Mr,  Carker,  Heaven  be  with  you,  sir!" 
cried  Walter,  with  emotion, 

"  If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  whila  he 
spoke;  "  if  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my 
old  comer,  and  should  hear  from  any  one  where  I  am 
lying,  come  and  look  upon  my  grave.  Think  that  I 
might  have  been  as  honest  and  as  happy  as  you!  And 
let  me  think,  when  I  know  my  time  is  coming  on,  that 
some  one  like  my  former  self  may  stand  there,  for  a 
moment,  and  remember  me  with  pity  and  forgiveness! 
Walter,  good  by! " 

His  figure  crept  like  a  shadow  down  the  bright,  sun- 
lighted  street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early 
summer  morning;  and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  that 
Walter  must  turn  his  back  upon  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man: and  away  they  went,  himself,  his  uncle,  and  the 
captain,  in  a  hackney-coach  to  a  wharf,  where  they  were 
to  take  steamboat  for  some  Reach  down  the  river,  the 
name  of  which,  as  the  captain  gave  it  out,  was  a  hope- 
less mystery  to  the  ears  of  landsmen.  Arrived  at  this 
Reach  (whither  the  ship  had  repaired  by  jast  night's 
tide),  they  were  boarded  by  various  excited  watermen, 
and  among  others  by  a  dirty  Cyclops  of  the  captain's  ac- 
quaintance, who,  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the  captain 
out  some  mile  and  a  half  off,  and  had  been  exchanging 
unintelligible  roars  with  him  ever  since.  Becoming  the 
lawful  prize  of  this  personage,  who  was  frightfidly 
hoarse  and  constitutionally  in  want  of  shaving,  they 
were  all  three  put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir.  And  the 
Son  and  Heir  was  in  a  pretty  state  of  confusion,  with 
sails  lying  all  bedraggled  on  the  wet  decks,  loose  ropee 
tripping  people  up,  men  in  red  shirts  running  barefoot 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  285 

to  and  fro,  CEwks  blockading  everj  foot  of  space,  and, 
in  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  a  black  cook' in  a  olack  ca- 
boose up  to  his  eyes  in  vegetables  and  blinded  with 
smoke. 

The  captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  comer, 
and  with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red, 

fulled  up  the  silver  watch  which  was  so  big,  and  so 
ight  in  his  pocket,  that  it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  handing  it  over^  and  shak- 
ing him  heartily  by  the  hand,  "a  parting  gift,  my  lad. 
Put  it  back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  an- 
other quarter  towards  the  arternoon,  and  it's  a  watch 
that'll  do  j'ou  credit." 

"Captam  Cuttlel  I  couldn't  think  of  it!"  cried  Walter, 
detaimng  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  "  Pray  take 
it  back.     I  have  one  already." 

"Then  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  suddenly  diving  into 
one  of  his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  tea-spoons  and 
the  sugar-tongs,  with  which  ne  had  armed  himself  to 
meet  such  an  objection,  "  Take  this  here  trifle  of  plate, 
instead." 

"  No,  no,  I  couldn't  indeed! "  cried  Walter,  "  a  thousand 
thanks!  Don't  throw  them  away,  Captain  Cuttle! "  for 
the  captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  overboard.  "  They'll 
be  of  much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give  me  your 
stick.  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  have 
it.  There!  Qood  by,  Captain  Cuttle!  TaJte  care  of 
my  uncle!    Uncle  Sol,  God  bless  you!" 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion  before  Wal- 
ter caught  another  glimpse  of  either;  and  when  he  ran 
up  to  the  stem,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  hi^  uncle 
hanging  down  his  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain  Cuttle 
rappmg  him  on  the  back  with  the  great  silver  watch  (it 
must  nave  been  very  painful),  and  gesticulating  hope- 
fully with  the  tea-spoons  and  sugar-tongs.  Catching 
sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  droppea  the  property 
into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  perfect  unconcern,  be- 
ing evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  pulling  off 
the  glazed  hat  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed  hat  made 
quite  a  show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and  the  cap- 
tain continued  to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen  no  longer. 
Then  the  confusion  on  lioard,  which  had  been  rapidly 
increasing,  reached  its  height;  two  or  three  other  boats 
went  away  with  a  cheer;  the  sails  shone  brig\A  aai  !«!&. 


886  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

above,  as  Walter  watched  them  spread  their  surface  to 
the  favorable  breeze;  the  water  new  in  sparkles  from 
the  prow;  and  off  upon  her  voyage  went  the  Son  and 
Heir  as  hopefully  and  trippingly  as  many  another  son 
and  heir,  gone  down,  had  started  on  his  way  before  her. 
Day  after  day,  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her 
reckoning  in  the  little  back  parlor  and  worked  out  her 
course  with  the  chart  spread  before  them  on  the  round 
table.  At  night,  when  old  Sol  climbed  up-stairs,  so 
lonely,  to  the  attic  where  it  sometimes  blew  great  guns, 
he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to  the  wincT  and 
kept  a  longer  watch  than  would  have  fallen  to  his  lot 
on  board  the  ship.  The  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira, 
which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and  known  its  dangers 
of  the  deep,  la^  silently  beneath  its  dust  and  cobwebs, 
in  the  meanwhile,  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HR.  DOMBET  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY. 

"Mk.  Dombey,  sir,"  said  Major Bagstock,  "Joey  B.  is 
not  in  general  a  man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  is  tough. 
But  Joe  has  his  feelings,  sir,  and  when  they  are  awak- 
ened^Damme,  Mr.  Dombey,"  cried  the  major  with  sud- 
den ferocity,  "  this  is  weakness,  and  I  won't  submit  to 
it!" 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions 
on  receiving  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his 
own  staircase  in  Princess's-place.  Mr.  Dombey  had 
come  to  breakfast  with  th6  major,  previous  to  their  set- 
ting forth  on  their  trip;  and  the  ill-starred  native  had 
already  undergone  a  world  of  misery  arising  out  of  the 
muffins,  while,  in  connexion  with  the  general  question 
of  boiled  e^s,  life  was  a  burden  to  him. 

"  It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Ba^tocfc  breed," 
observed  the  major,  relapsing  into  a  mild  state,  "to 
deliver  himself  up,  a  prey  to  nis  own  emotions;  but— 
damme  sir,"  cried  the  major,  in  another  spasm  of 
ferocity,  "I condole  with  you!" 

The  major's  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  287 

major's  lobster  ejes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief,  as 
ihook  Mr.  Dombe^  by  the  haud,  impartiDK  to  tnat 
;eful  action- as  defiant  a  character  as  if  it  had  been 
prelude  to  his  immediately  boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for 
ousand  pounds  a  side  and  the  championship  of  Bng- 
r.  With  a  rotary  motion  of  his  head,  and  a  wheeze 
F  like  the  cough  of  a  horse,  the  major  then  edi- 
ted his  visitor  to  his  sitting-room,  and  there  wel- 
led  him  (having  now  composed  his  feelings)  with 
freedom  and  frankness  of  a  travelling  companion. 
Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in 
ope  of  whom  J.  Bagstoek  would  say  that— for  Josh  is 
it,  sir:  it's  his  nature — but  Joey  B.  is  proud  to  see 
,  Dombey." 
Major,"    returned  Mr.    Dombey,    "you   are   very 

No,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  Devil  abit!  That's  not  my 
racter.  If  that  had  been  Joe's  character,  Joe  might 
e  been,  by  this  time,  Lieutenant-Qeneral  Sir  Joseph 
:stock,  K,C.B.,  and  might  have  received  you  in  very 
arent  quarters.    Yon  don't  know  old  Joe  yet,  I  find, 

this  occasion,  being  special,  is  a  source  of  pride  to 
By  the  Lord,  sir,    said  the  major  resolutely,  "it's 
lonor  to  me! "' 

r.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himself  and  his 
ley,  felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did  not 
lUte  the  point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of 
1  a  truth  by  the  major,  and  his  pliiin  avowal  of  it, 
e  very  agreeable.  It  was  a  confirmation  to  Mr. 
obey,  if  he  had  required  any,  of  his  not  being  mis- 
3n  m  the  major.  It  was  an  assurance  to  him 
;  his  power  extended  beyond  bis  own  immediat« 
sre:  and  that  the  major,  as  an  officer  and  a  gentle- 
1,  had  a  no  less  becoming  sense  of  it  than  the 
Jle  of  the  Royal  Exchange. 

nd  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the 
of  this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  when  the  impo- 
se of  his  will,  the  instability  of  liis  hopes,  the  feeble- 
i  of  wealth,  had  been  so  direfuUy  impressed  upon 
.  What  could  it  do,  his  boy  had  asked  him.  9ome- 
38,  thinking  of  the  baby  question,  he  could  hardlv 
>ear  inquiring,  himself,  what  could  it  do  indeed-, 
it  had  it  done?  , 


288  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in 
the  sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement, 
and  pride  easily  found  its  reassurance  in  many  testimo- 
nies to  the  truth,  as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the 
major's.  Mr,  Dombey,  in  nis  friendlessness,  inclined  to 
the  major.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  warmed  towards 
him,  but  he  thawed  a  little.  The  major  had  had  some 
part— and  not  too  much — in  the  days  by  the  seaside. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  knew  some  great  peo- 
ple. He  talked  much,  and  told  stories;  and  Mr.  Donibey 
was  disposed  to  regard  him  as  a  choice  spirit  who  shone 
in  society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous  ineredient 
of  poverty  with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are  too 
much  adulterated.  His  station  was  undeniable.  Al- 
together the  major  was  a  creditable  companion,  well 
accustomed  to  a  life  of  leisure,  and  to  such  places  as 
that  they  were  about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air  of  gen- 
tlemanly ease  about  him  that  mixed  well  enough  with 
his  own  city  character,  and  did  not  compete  with  it  at 
all.  If  Mr.  Dombey  had  any  lingering  idea  that  the 
major,  as  a  man  accustomed,  in  the  wav  of  his  calling, 
to  make  light  of  the  ruthless  hand  tnat  had  lately 
crushed  his  hopes,  might  unconsciously  impart  some 
useful  philosophy  to  him,  and  scare  awa^  his  weak  re- 

frets,  he  hid  it  from  himself,  and  left  it  lying  at  tlie 
ottoin  of  bis  pride,  unexamined. 

"Where  is  my  scoundrel!"  said  the  major,  looking 
wrathfully  round  the  room. 

The  native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  hut  answered 
to  any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself  instantly 
at  the  door  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

"  You  villain!  "  said  the  choleric  major,  "  where's  the 
breakfast?  " 

The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was 
quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in  such  a  tremu- 
lous suite  that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  car- 
ried, trembling  sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled 
again  all  the  way  up. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  glancing  at  the  native  as 
he  arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an 
awful  shalee  of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a  spoon,  "  here  is 
a  devilled  grill,  a  savory  pie,  a  dish  of  kidneys,  and  so 
forth.  Pray  flit  down.  Old  Joe  can  yive  you  nothing 
but  camp  fare,  you  see." 

Digilizcdt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

-  .  .  "  '8  guei  , 
not  in  mere  politeness  either;  for  the  major  always  took 
the  best  possible  care  of  himself,  and  inaeed  ate  rather 
more  of  rich  meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch 
that  bis  Imperial  complexion  was  mainly  referred  by 
the  faculty  to  that  circumstance. 

•'  You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,"  observed 
the  major.     "Have  you  seen  our  friend?" 

"  You  mean  Miss  Tox,"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey,     "  No." 

"Charming  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  a  fat 
laugh  rising  m  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suffocating 
him. 

"Miss  Tox  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  I  believe," 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  reply  seemed  to  afford 
Major  Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and 
swelled,  exceedingly:  and  even  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork  for  a  moment,  to  rub  his  hands. 

"  Old  Joe,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  was  a  bit  of  a  favorite 
in  that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day.  J.  Bag- 
stock  is  extinguished — outrivalled— floored,  sir.  I  tell 
you  what,  Dombey."  The  major  paused  in  his  eating, 
and  looked  mysteriously  indignant.  "  That's  a  de-vilisn 
ambitious  woman,  sir. 

Mr.  Dombey  said  "Indeed!"  with  frigid  indiflference: 
mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incredulity 
as  to  Miss  Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbor  such  a 
superior  quality. 

"  That  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  '•  is,  in  her  way, 
a  Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day  sir,  but  he  keeps 
his  eves.  He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the 
late  Duke  of  York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a  levee,  that  he 
saw," 

The  major  accompanied  this  with  such  a  look,  and, 
between  eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled  grill,  muf- 
fins, and  meaning,  was  altogether  so  swollen  and  in- 
flamed about  the  head,  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  showed 
some  anxiety  for  him. 

"  That  riaiculous  old  spectacle,  sir,"  pursued  the 
major,  "aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  sir.  Matri- 
monially, Dombey." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 

"Don't  say  that,  Dombey,"  returned  the  ma^OT  V-a  «. 
warning  voice. 


290  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

•■     "  Why  should  I  not,  major?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse's  cough,  and 
went  on  eating  vigorously. 

"She  has  taKen  an  interest  in  your  household,"  stud 
the  major,  stopping  short  again,  "'and  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  your  house  for  some  time  now," 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey  with  great  stateliness, 
"  Miss  Tox  was  originally  received  there,  at  the  time  of 
Mrs.  Dombey's  death,  as  a  friend  of  my  sister's;  and  be- 
ing a  wo!l-bebaved  peison,  and  sbow^ing  a  liking  for  the 
poor  infant,  she  was  permitted — I  may  say  encouraged 
— to  repeat  her  visits,  with  my  sister,  and  gradually  to 
occupy  a  kind  of  footing  of  familiarityin  the  family'  I 
have,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  was 
making  a  great  and  valuable  concessiou,  "  I  have  a  re- 
spect for  Miss  Tox.  She  has  been  so  obliging  as  to  ren- 
der man  J'  little  services  in  my  house:  trifling  and 
insignificant  services  perhaps,  major,  but  not  to  be  dis- 
paraged on  that  account:  and  I  hope  I  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  enabled  to  acknowledge  them  by  such 
attention  and  notice  as  it  has  been  in  my  power  to  be- 
stow. I  hold  myself  indebted  to  Miss  Tox,  major,"  ad- 
ded Mr.  Dombey.  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  "for 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major  warmly;  "no!  No,  sir! 
Joseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass 
uncontradicted.  Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  sir.  such 
as  he  is,  and  old  Joe's  knowledge  of  you,  sir.  had  its 
origin  in  a  noble  fellow,  sir— in  a  great  creature,  sir, 
Dombey! "  said  the  major,  with  a  struggle  which  it  was 
not  very  difficult  to  parade,  his  whole  life  being  a  strug- 
gle against  all  kinds  of  apoplectic  symptoms,  "  ^e  knew 
each  other  through  your  bov." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable 
the  major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  He 
looked  down  and  sighed:  and  the  major,  rousing  him- 
self fiercely,  again  said,  in  reference  to  the  state  of 
mind  into  .which  he  felt  himself  in  danger  of  falling, 
that  this  was  weakness,  and  nothing  should  induce  him 
to  submit  to  it. 

"  Our  friend  had  a  remote  connection  with  that  event," 
said  the  major,  "  and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her. 
J.  B.  is  willing  to  give  her.  sir.  Notwithstanding  which, 
ma'am,"  he  added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  891 

i^asting  them  across  Princeas'B  place  to  where  Mies  Tox 
was  at  that  moment  visible  at  her  window  watering  her 
flowers,  ■■you're  a  scheming  jade,  ma'am,  and  your 
ambition  is  a  piece  of  monstrous  impudence.  If  it  only 
made  yourself  ridiculous,  ma'am,''  said  the  major,  roll- 
ing his  head  at  the  unconscious  Miss  Tox,  while  his 
staftiDg  eyes  appeared  to  make  a  leap  towards  her, 
•'vou  might  do  that  to  your  heart's  content,  ma'am, 
without  any  objection,  I  assure  you,  on  the  part  of  Bag- 
stock."  Here  the  major  laughed  frightfully  up  in  the 
tipB  of  his  ears  and  m  the  veins  of  his  head.  "  But 
wnen,  ma'am,"'  said  the  major,  "  you  compromise  other 
people,  and  geuerous,  unsuspicious  people  too,  as  a  re- 
pavment  for  their  condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of 
old  Joe  in  his  body." 

'"Major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  reddening,  "I  hope  you 
do  not  hint  at  anything  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Tox  as—" 

"Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "I  hint  at  nothing. 
But  Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir:  lived  in  the 
world  with  his  eyes  open,  air,  and  his  ears  cocked:  and 
Joe  tells  you,  Dombey,  that  there's  a  de-vilish  artful 
and  ambitious  woman  over  the  way."' 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way;  and 
an  angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction  too. 

"  That's  all  on  such  a  subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips 
of  Joseph  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  firmly.  '"Joe  is 
not  a  talebearer,  but  there  are  times  when  he  must 
speak,  when  he  will  speak  I  —  confound  jour  arts, 
ma'am."  cried  the  major,  again  apostrophizmg  his  fair 
neighbor,  with  great  ire.  "—when  the  provocation  is  too 
BtJong  to  admit  of  his  remaining  silent." 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  major  into  a 
paroxysm  of  horse's  coughs,  which  held  him  for  a  long 
time.     On  recovering  he  added: 

"And  now,  Dombey.  as  you  have  invited  Joe — old 
Joe,  who  has  no  other  merit,  sir.  but  that  he  is  tough 
and  hearty — to  be  your  guest  and  guide  at  Leamington, 
command  him  in  any  way  you  please,  and  he  is  wholly 
yours,  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  major,  wagging  his 
double  chin  with  a  jocose  air,  "what  it  is  you  people 
see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in  such  great  request, 
all  of  you;  hut  this  I  know.  sir.  that  if  he  "waarv'l  weXfeg 
tough,  and   obstinate  in   his   refusals,  you'd  V\\\  V\Tt\ 


298  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

among  you  with  your  invitatioDB  and  so  forth,  in  double 
quick  time." 

Mr,  Dombey,  in  a  few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of 
the  preference  he  received  over  those  other  distin- 
g^uished  members  of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the 
possession  of  Major  Bagstock.  But  the  major  cut  him 
short  by  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  followed  his 
own  inclinations,  and  that  they  had  risen  up  in  a  body 
and  said  with  one  accord,  "J.  B.,  Dombey  is  the  man 
for  you  to  choose  as  a  friend." 

The  major  being  by  this  time  in  a  state  of  repletion, 
with  essence  of  savory  pie  oozing  out  at  the  comers  oi 
his  eyes,  and  devilled  grill  and  Kidneys  tightening  his 
cravat:  and  the  time  moreover  approaching  for  the  de- 
parture of  the  railway  train  to  Birmingham,  by  whi(^ 
they  were  to  leave  town:  the  native  got  him  into  his 
great-coat  with  immense  diflficulty,  and  buttoned  him 
up  until  bis  face  looked  staring  and  gasping,  over  the 
top  of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  in  a  barrel.  The 
native  then  handed  him  separately,  and  with  a  decent 
interval  between  each  BUpply,  his  wash-leather  gloves, 
his  thick  stick,  and  his  hat;  which  latter  article  the 
major  wore  with  a  rakish  air,  on  one  side  of  bis  head, 
by  way  of  toning  down  his  remarkable  visage.  The 
native  had  previously  packed,  in  all  possible  and  impos- 
sible parts  of  Mr.  Domoey's  chariot,  which  was  in  wait- 
ing, an  unusual  quantity  of  carpet-bags  and  small 
portmanteaus,  no  less  apoplectic  in  appearance  than  the 
major  himself:  and  having  filled  his  own  pockets  with 
Seltzer  water,  East  India  sherry,  Bandwicnes,  shawls, 
telescopes,  maps,  and  newspapers,  any  or  all  of  which 
light  baggage  ihe  major  might  require  at  any  instant 
of  the  loumey,  he  announced  that  everything  was 
ready.  To  complete  the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate 
foreigner  (currently  believed  to  be  a  prince  in  his  own 
country),  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  rumble  by  the 
side  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  a  pile  of  the  major's  cloaks  and 
great-coats  was  hurled  upon  him  by  the  landlord,  who 
aimed  at  him  from  the  pavement  with  those  great  mis- 
siles like  a  Titan,  and  so  covered  him  up,  that  he  pro- 
ceeded in  a  living  tomb  to  the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the 
native  was  in  the  act  of  sepulture,  Miss  Tox  appearing 
at  her  window  waved  a  Uly-white  handkerchief.    Mr. 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  293 

Dombey  received  this  parting  salutation  very  coldly — 
very  cmdly  even  for  him — and  honoring  her  with  the 
slightest  possible  inclination  of  hie  head,  leaned  back  in 
the  carnage  with  a  very  discontented  look.  His 
meirked  behavior  seemed  to  afford  the  major  (who  was 
all  politeness  in  his  recognition  of  Miss  Tox)  unbounded 
satisfaction-  and  he  sat  for  a  long  time  afterwards 
leering,  and  choking,  like  an  over-fea  Mephistopheles. 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr. 
Dombey  and  the  major  walked  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form side  by  side;  the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and 
the  latter  entertaining  him,  or  entertaining  himself, 
with  a  variety  of  anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  inmost 
of  which  Joe  Bagstock  was  the  principal  performer. 
Neither  of  the  two  observed  that  in  the  course  of  these 
walks  they  attracted  the  attention  of  a  working  man 
w^ho  was  standing  near  the  engine,  and  who  touched 
his  hat  every  time  they  passed;  for  Mr.  Dombey  habit- 
ually looked  over  the  vulgar  herd,  not  at  them;  and  the 
major  was  looking,  at  the  time,  into  the  core  of  one  of 
his  stories.  At  length,  however,  this  man  stepped  be- 
fore them  as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling  his  nat  off, 
and  keeping  it  off,  ducked  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "but  I  hope 
you're  a  doin'  pretty  well,  sir." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  suit  abundantly  be-  - 
smeared  with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his 
whiskers,  and  a  smell  of  half -slaked  ashes  all  over  him. 
He  was  not  a  bad-looking  fellow,  nor  even  what  could 
be  fairly  called  a  dirty-looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this; 
and,  in  short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle.  professionally  clothed. 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  stokin'  of  you  down,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Toodle.  "Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  hope  you 
find  yourself  a  coming  round? 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of 
interest,  as  if  a  man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eye- 
sight dirty. 

"  'Scuse  the  liberty,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  was 
not  clearly  remembered,  "but  my  wife  Polly,  as  was 
called  Richards  in  your  family — " 

A  change  in  Mr.  Dombey^s  face,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
press recollection  of  him,  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed 
in  a  much  stronger  degree  an  angry  sense  ol  numAW 
tion,  stopped  Mr.  Toodle  short. 


«4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Your  wife  wants  money,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocKet,  and  speaking  (but 
that  he  always  did)  haughtily. 

"  No  thank'ee,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  "  I  can't  say  she 
does,     /  don't." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn:  and 
awkwardly:  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

'*  No  sir,"  said  Toodle,  turning  his  oilskin  cap  round 
and  round;  "we're  a  doin'  pretty  well,  sir;  we  liaveu't 
no  cause  to  complain  in  the  worldly  way,  sir.  We'»e 
had  four  more  since  then,  sir,  but  we  rubs  on," 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  car- 
riage, though  in  so  doing  he  had  nibbed  the  stoker  un- 
derneath the  wheels;  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
something  in  connexion  with  the  cap  still  going  slowly 
round  and  round  in  the  man's  hand, 

"  We  lost  one  babby,"  observed  Toodle,  ''  there's  no 
deny  in'," 

'"Lately,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap, 

"  No,  sir,  up'ard  of  three  years  ago,  but  all  the  rest  is 
hearty.  And  in  the  matter  o'  readm"  sir."  said  Toodle, 
ducking  again,  as  if  to  remiud  Mr.  Dombey  of  what 
had  passed  between  them  on  that  subject  long  ago. 
''  them  boys  o"  mine,  they  learned  me,  among  'em,  arter 
all.  They've  made  a  wery  tolerable  scholar  of  me,  sir, 
them  boys," 

"  Come,  major: "  said  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  resumed  Toodle,  taking  a 
step  before  them  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again, 
still  cap  in  hand:  "  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  with 
,such  a  pint  except  as  a  ^ay  of  gettin'  in  the  name  of 
my  son  Biler — christened  Robin — him  aa  you  was  so 
good  as  to  make  a  Charitable  Grinder  on." 

"  Well,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  severest  man- 
ner,    "  What  about  him?  " 

'■  Why,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with 
a  face  of  great  anxiety  and  distress,  "I'm  forced  to 
say,  sir,  that  he's  gone  wrong." 

"He  has  gone  wrong,  has  he?"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a  hard  kind  of  satisfaction. 

"  He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see.  gentlemen." 
pursued  the  father,  looking  wistfully  at  t>oth,  and  evi- 
dently taking  the  major  into  the  conversation  with  the 
hope  of  having  his  sympathy.  "He  has  got  into  bad 
,  .       C;ooo[c 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^95 

wajs.  Goti  send  he  may  come  to  again,  genelmen,  but 
he's  on  the  wrong  track  now!  You  could  hardly  be  off 
hearing  of  it  somehow,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  again  address- 
ing Mr,  Dombey  individually;  "and  it's  better  I  should 
out  and  say  my  boy's  gone  rather  wrong.  Polly's 
dreadful  down,  about  it,  genelmen,"  said  Toodle  with 
the  same  dejected  look,  and  another  appeal  to  the 
major. 

•*  A  son  of  this  man's  whom  I  caused  to  be  educated, 
major,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  "The 
usual  return!" 

"  Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe.  and  never  educate 
that  sort  of  people,  sir,"  returned  the  major,  "  Damme, 
sir,  it  never  does!     It  always  fails! " 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he 
hoped  his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed, 
and  flogged,  and  badged,  and  taught,  as  parrots  are,  by 
a  brute  jobbed  into  liis  place  of  schoolmaster  with  as 
much  fitness  for  it  as  a  hound,  might  not  have  been 
educated  on  quite  a  right  plan  in  some  undiscovered 
respect,  when  Mr.  Dombey  angrily  repeating  "The 
usual  return!"  led  the  major  away.  And  the  major 
Iteing  heavy  to  hoist  in  to  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  ele- 
vated in  mid-air,  and  having  to  stop  and  swear  that  he 
would  flay  the  native  alive,  and  break  every  bone  in  his 
skin,  and  visit  other  physical  torments  upon  him,  every 
time  he  couldn't  get  his  foot  on  the  step,  and  fell  back 
on  that  dark  exile,  had  barely  time  before  they  started 
to  repeat  hoarsely  that  it  would  never  do:  that  it  always 
failed:  and  that  if  he  were  to  educate  "his  own  vaga- 
bond," he  would  certainly  be  hanged. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly:  hut  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of 
falling  back  in  the  carriage,. and  looking  with  knitted 
browB  at  the  changing  objects  without,  than  the  failure 
of  that  noble  educational  system  administered  by  the 
Grinders'  Company.  He  had  seen  upon  the  man's 
rough  cap  a  piece  of  new  crape,  and  ne  had  assured 
himself,  from  nis  manner  and  his  answers,  that  he  wore 
it  for  his  son. 

So!  from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Flor- 
ence in  his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was 
feeding  the  fire  then  smoking  before  them,  evet';j  oue 
set  up  some  claim  or  other  to  a  share  in  his  AeaA.  \>on  , 


296  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  was  a  bidder  against  him !  Could  he  ever  forget 
how  that  woman  had  wept  over  his  pillow,  and  called 
him  her  own  child!  or  how  he,  waking  from  his  sleep, 
had  asked  for  her,  and  had  raised  hmiself  in  his  bed 
and  hrightened  when  she  came  in! 

To  tbmk  of  this  presumptuous  rakeV  among  coals  and 
ashes  going  on  hefore  there,  with  his  sign  of  moumiiig! 
To  think  that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a  common  show 
like  that,  into  the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a  proud 
gentleman's  secret  heart!  To  think  that  this  lost  child, 
who  was  to  have  divided  with  him  his  riches,  and  his 
projects,  and  his  power,  and  allied  with  whom  he  was 
to  have  shut  out  all  the  world  as  with  a  double  door  of 
gold,  should  have  let  iu  such  a  herd  to  insult  him  with 
their  knowledge  of  hie  defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts 
of  claiming  community  of  feeling  with  himself,  so  far 
removed;  if  not  of  having  crept  into  the  place  wherein 
he  would  have  lorded  it  alone! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tor- 
tured by  these  tnoughts  he  carried  monotony  with  him, 
through  the  rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong, 
not  through  a  rich  and  varied  country,  but  a  wilderness 
of  blighted  plans  and  gnawing  jealousies.  The  very 
speed  at  which  the  train  was  whirled  along  mocked  the 
swift  course  of  the  young  life  that  had  been  borne 
away  so  steadily  and  so  inexorably  to  its  foredoomed 
end.  The  power  that  forced  itself  upon  its  iron  way- 
its  own — defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing  through 
the  heart  of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living  creat- 
ures of  all  classes,  ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  -was  a 
type  of  the  triumphant  monster,  Death! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  from 
the  town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and 
making  the  streets  hum,  flashing  out  into  the  meadows 
for  a  moment,  mining  in  through  the  damp  earth, 
booming  on  in  the  darkness  and  heavy  air,  bursting  out 
again  into  the. sunny  day  so  bright  and  wide;  away, 
with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  through  the 
fields,  through  the  woods,  through  the  com,  through 
the  hay,  through  the  chalk,  through  the  m(juld,  through 
the  clay,  through  the  rock,  among  objects  close  at  hand 
and  almost  in  the  grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  traveller, 
and  a  deceitful  distence  ever  moving  slowly  within  him: 
like  as  in  the  track  of  the  remorseless  monster.  Death! 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  297 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  hy  the  heath,  by- 
he  orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal, 
cross  the  river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the 
lill  18  going,  where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the 
ead  are  lying,  where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where 
ije  stream  is  running,  where  the  village  clusters,  where 
he  great  cathedral  rises,  where  the  nleak  moor  lies, 
nd  the  wild  breeze  smooths  or  ruffles  it  at  its  inconstant 
rill;  away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  and 
o  trace  to  leave  behind  but  dust  and  vapor;  like  as  in 
ae  track  of  the  remorseless  monster,  Death! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sun- 
bine,  away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars,  fierce  and 
ipid,  smooth  and  certain,  and  great  works  and  massive 
ndges  crossing  up  above,  fall  like  a  beam  of  shadow 
n  inch  broad,  upon  the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away, 
nd  still  away,  onward  and  onward  ever:  glimpses  of 
ottage-homes,  of  houses,  mansions,  rich  estates,  of 
usbandry  and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old  roads  and 
aths  that  look  deserted,  small  and  insignificant  as  they 
re  left  behind;  and  so  they  do,  and  what  else  is  there 
utsuch  glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the  indomitable  mon- 
ter,  Deaui! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  plung- 
ig  down  into  the  earth  again,  and  working  on  in  such 

storm  of  energy  and  perseverance,  that  amidst  the 
arkness  and  whirlwind  tne  motion  seems  reversed,  and 
)  tend  furiously  backward,  until  a  ray  of  light  upon 
le  wet  wall  shows  its  surface  flying  past  like  a  fierce 
tream.  Away  once  more  into  the  day,  and  through 
^e  day,  with  a  shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring,  rattling, 
taring  on,  spuming  everything  with  its  dark  breath, 
^metimes  pausing  for  a  minute  where  a  crowd  of  faces 
re,  that  in  a  minute  more  are  not:  sometimes  lapping 
'ater  greedily,  and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks 
as  ceased  to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring, 
attling  through  the  purple  distancel 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  criesAS  it  comes 
taring  on  resistless  to  the  goal;  and  now  its  way,  still 
ke  the  wag  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly. 
Everything  around  is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools 
f  water,  muddy  lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far 
elow.  There  are  jagged  walls  and  falling  houses  cVos^ 
t  hand,  and  through  the  battered  roofs  and  TDToVea 


'M  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

windows,  wretched  rooms  are  seen,  where  want  and 
fever  hide  themselves  in  many  wretched  shapes,  while 
smoke  and  crowded  gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and 
deformity  of  brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of 
mind  and  body,  choke  the  murky  distance.  As  Mr. 
Dorabey  looks  out  of  his  carriage  window,  it  is  never  in 
his  thoughts  that  the  monster  who  has  brought  him 
there  has  let  the  light  of  day  in  on  these  things:  not 
made  or  caused  them.  It  was  the  journey's  fitting  end, 
and  might  have  been  the  end  of  everything;  it  was  bo 
ruinous  and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the 
one  relentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things 
looked  black,  and  cold,  and  deadly  upon  him,  and  he 
on  them.  He  found  a  likeness  to  his  misfortune  every- 
where. There  was  a  remorseless  triumph  going  on 
about  him,  and  it  galled  and  stung  him  in  his  pride  and 
jealousy,  whatever  form  it  took:  though  most  of  all 
when  it  divided  with  him  the  love  and  memory  of  hie 
lost  boy. 

There  was  a  face — he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  tnat  read  his  soul, 
though  tiiey  were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon  be- 
hind two  quivering  hands — that  often  had  attended  him 
in  fancy — on  this  ride.  He  had  seen  it,  with  the  ex- 
pression of  last  night,  timidly  pleading  to  him.  It  was 
not  reproachful,  but  there  was  something  of  doubt,  al- 
most of  hopeful  incredulity  in  it,  which,  as  he  once 
more  saw  that  fade  away  into  a  desolate  certainty  of 
his  dislike,  was  like  reproach.  It  was  a  trouble  to'hhn 
to  think  of  this  face  of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  towards  it? 
No.  Because  the  feeling  it  awakened  in  him — of  which 
he  had  had  some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times — was 
full-formed  now,  and  spoke  out  plainly,  moving  him  too 
much,  and  threatening  to  grow  too  strong  for  his  com- 
posure. Because  the  face  was  abroad,  in  the  expression 
of  defeat  aijd  persecution  that  seemed  to  encircle  him 
like  the  air.  Because  it  barbed  the  arrow  of  that  cruel 
and  remorseless  enemy  on  which  his  thoughts  so  ran. 
and  put  into  its  grasp  a  double-handed  sword.  Because 
he  knew  full  well,  in  his  own  breast,  as  he  stood  there, 
tinging  the  scene  of  transition  before  him  with  the  mor- 
bid colors  of  his  own  mind,  and  making  it  a  ruin  and  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  29£< 

picture  of  deca^,  ioBtead  of  hopeful  change,  and  prom- 
ise of  better  things,  that  life  had  quite  as  much  to  do 
with  his  complainings  as  death.  One  child  was  gone, 
and  one  child  left.  Why  was  the  object  of  his  hope  re- 
moved instead  of  her? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy,  moved 
him  to  no  reflection  out  that.  She  had  been  unwelcome 
to  him  from  the  first;  she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bit- 
terness now.  If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the 
same  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy 
to  bear;  Jjut  infinitely  lighter  than  now,  when  it  might 
have  fallen  on  her  (whom  he  could  have  lost,  or  he  be- 
lieved it,  without  a  pang),  and  had  not.  Her  loving 
and  innocent  face  rising  before  him,  had  no  softeiaing  or 
winning  influence.  He  rejected  the  angei,  and  took  up 
with  the  tormenting  spirit  crouching  in  his  bosom.  Her 
patience,  goodness,  youth,  devotion,  love,  were  as  so 
many  atoms  in  the  ashes  upon  which  he  set  his  heel. 
He  saw  her  image  in  the  blight  and  blackness  all  around 
him,  not  irradiating  but  deepening  the  gloom.  More 
than  once  upon  this  journey,  and  now  again  as  he  stood 
pondering  at  this  journey's  end,  tracing  figures  in  the 
dust  with  his  stick,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind, 
what  was  there  he  could  interpose  between  himself  and 
it? 

The  major  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the 
way  down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had 
often  wandered  from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  pros- 
pect, as  if  there  were  a  great  procession  of  discomfited 
Miss  Toxes  pouring  out  m  thfe  smoke  of  the  train,  and 
flving  away  over  the  fields  to  hide  themselves  in  any 
place  of  refuge,  aroused  his  friend  by  informing  him 
that  the  post-horses  were  harnessed  and  the  carriage 
ready. 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major,  rapping  him  on  the  arm 
with  his  cane,  "  don't  be  thoughtful.  It's  a  bad  habit. 
Old  Joe,  sir,  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  li.e 
had  ever  encouraged  it.  You  are  too  great  a  man, 
Oomhey,  to  be  thoughtful.  In  your  position,  sir,  you're 
far  above  that  kind  of  thing." 

The  major,  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thus 
consulting  the  dignity  and  honor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
showing  a  lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dom\>^.N' 
felt  more  than  ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a  4eTvV\erc\a\\ 


300  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

possessing  eo  much  aood  sense  and  such  a  well-regulated 
mind;  accordingly  ne  made  an  effort  to  listen  to  the 
major's  stories,  as  they  trotted  along  the  turnpike-road; 
ana  the  major,  finding  both  the  pace  and  the  road  a 
great  deal  better  adapted  to  his  conTersational  powers 
than  the  mode  of  travelling  they  had  just  relinquished, 
came  out  for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  inter- 
rupted by  his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  and  Hy  inter- 
vals of  lunch,  and  from  time  to  time  by  some  violent 
assault  upon  the  native,  who  wore  a  pair  of  eai-ringB  in 
his  dark -brown  ears,  and  on  whom  his  European  clothes 
sat  with  an  outlandish  impossibility  of  adjustment— be- 
ing, of  their  own  accord,  and  without  any  reference  to 
the  tailor's  art,  long  where  they  ought  to  be  short,  short 
where  they  ought  to  be  long,  tight  where  they  ought  ta 
be  loose,  and  loose  where  they  ought  to  be  tight — and  to 
which  he  imparted  a  new  grace  whenever  the  major  at- 
tacked him,  bv  shrinking  into  them  like  a  shriveled  nut 
or  a  cold  monkey — in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversa- 
tion, the  major  continued  all  day:  so  that  when  evening 
came  on,  and  found  them  trotting  through  the  green 
and  leafy  road  near  Leamington,  the  major's  voice, 
what  with  talking  and  eating  and  chuckling  and  chok- 
ing, appeared  to  be  in  the  box  under  the  rumble,  or  in 
some  neighboring  haystack.  Nor  did  the  major  im- 
prove it  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner 
had  been  ordered,  and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs 
of  speech  by  eating  and  drinking  that  when  he  retired 
to  bed  he  had  no  voice  at  all,  except  to  cough  with,  and 
could  only  make  himself  intelligible  to  the  dark  servant 
by  gasping  at  him. 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a  giant 
refreshed,  but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a 
giant  refreshing.  At  this  meal  they  arranged  their 
daily  habits.  The  major  was  to  take  the  responsibility 
of  ordering  everything  to  eat  and  drink;  and  they  were 
to  have  a  late  breakfast  together  every  morning,  and  a 
late  dinner  together  every  day.  Mr.  Dombey  would 
prefer  remaining  in  his  own  room,  or  walking  in  the 
country  by  himself,  on  that  first  day  of  their  sojourn  at 
Ijcamington;  but  next  morning  lie  would  be  happy  to 
accompany  the  major  to  the  Pump-room  and  about  the 
town.    So  they  parted  uijtil  dinner-time.    Mr.  Dombey 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  301 

retired  to  nurse  his  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way. 
The  major,  attended  by  the  native  carrying  a  camp- 
stool,  a  great-coat,  and  an  umbrella,  swaggered  up  and 
down  through  all  the  public  places;  looking  into  sub- 
scription books  to  find  out  who  was  there;  looking  up 
old  ladies  by  whom  he  was  much  admired,  reporting  J, 
B.  tougher  than  ever,  and  puffing  his  rich  friend  Dom- 
bey  wherever  he  went.  There  never  was  a  man  who 
stood  by  a  friend  more  staunchly  than  the  major,  when 
in  puffing  him,  he  puffed  himself. 

It  was  surprising  how  much  new  conversation  the 
major  had  to  let  oft  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion 
he  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At 
breakfast,  next  morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the 
latest  newspapers  received ;  and  mentioned  several  sub- 
jects in  connexion  with  them  on  which  his  opinion  had 
recently  been  sought  by  persons  of  such  power  and 
might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  obscurely  hinted  at. 
Mr.  Dombev,  who  had- been  so  long  shut  up  within  him- 
self, and  who  had  rarely,  at  any  time,  overstepped  the 
enchanted  circle  within  which  the  operations  of  Dombey 
and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  im- 
provement on  his  solitary  life;  and  in  place  of  excusing 
himself  for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing 
when  alone,  walked  out  with  the  major  arm-in-arm. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

NEW   PACES. 

The  major,  more  blue-faced  and.  staring — more  .over- 
ripe, as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giving  vent,  every  now 
and  then,  to  one  of  the  horse's  coughs,  not  so  much  of 
necessity  as  in  a  spontaneous  explosion  of  importance, 
walked  arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side 
of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks  swelling  over  his  tight 
stock,  his  legs  majestically  wide  apart,  and  his  great 
head  waging  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  remon- 
strating withm  himself  for  being  such  a  captivating  ob- 
ject. They  had  not  walked  many  yards  before  the 
major  encountered  somebody  he  knew,  nor  laaiiy  "Ya,T^% 


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303  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

farther  before  the  major  encountered  somebody  else  he 
knew,  but  he  merely  shoot  his  fingers  at  them  as  he 
passed,  and  led  Mr.  I)ombey  on:  pointing  out  the  local- 
ities as  they  went,  and  enlivening  the  walk  with  any 
current  scandal  suggested  by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  were  walk- 
ing arm-in-ann,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  when 
tbey  beheld  advancing  towards  them  a  wheeled  chair, 
in  which  a  lady  was  seated,  indolently  steering  her  car- 
riage by  a  kind  of  rudder  in  front,  while  it  was  pro- 
pelled by  some  unseen  power  in  the  rear.  Although 
the  lady  was  not  young,  she  was  very  blooming  in  the 
face — quite  rosy — and  tier  dress  and  attitude  was  per- 
fectly juvenile.  Walking  by  the  side  of  the  chair,  and 
carrying  her  gossamer  parasol  with  a  proud  and  wearv 
air,  as  if  so  great  an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned, 
and  the  parasol  dropped,  sauntered  a  much  younger 
lady,  very  handsome,  very  haughty,  very  wilful,  who 
tossed  her  head  and  drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if 
there  were  anything  in  all  the  world  worth  looking  into, 
save  a  mirror,  it  certainly  was  not  the  earth  or  sky, 

"Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  sir!"'  cried  thp 
major,  stopping  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near. 

■■  My  dearest  Edith!"  drawled  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
"Major  Bagstockl " 

The  major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice  than  he  relin- 
quished Mr.  Dombey's  arm.  darted  forward,  took  the 
hand  of  the  lady  in  the  chair  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
With  no  less  gallantry  the  major  folded  both  his  gloves 
upon  his  heart,  and  bowed  low  to  the  other  lady.  And 
now,  the  chair  having  stopped,  the  motive  power  became 
visible  in  the  shape  of  a  flushed  page  pushing  behind. 
who  seemed  to  have  in  part  outgrown  and  in  part  out- 
pushed  his  strength,  for  when  he  stood  upright  he  was 
tall,  and  wan,  and  thin,  and  his  plight  appeared  the 
more  forlorn  from  his  having  injured  tbe  shape  of  his 
hat  by  butting  at  the  carriage  with  his  head  to  urge  it 
forward,  as  is  sometimes  done  by  elephants  in  Oriental 
countries. 

■Joe  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  to  both  ladies.  "  is  a 
proud  and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"You  false  creature,"  said  the  old  lady  in  the  chair, 
insipidly.  "Where  do  you  come  from?  I  can't  bear 
you," 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  mt 

"Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a  friend,  ma'am," 
said  the  major,  promptly,  "as  a  reason  for  being  tol- 
erated. Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Skewton."  The  lady  in  the 
chair  was  gracious.  "Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger." 
The  lady  with  the  parasol  was  faintly  conscious  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  taking  off  his  hat,  and  bowing  low.  "  I  am 
delighted,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "to  have  this  opportu- 

The  major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the 
three  and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

"Mrs,  SkewtoD,  Domb^-,"  said  the  major,  "makes 
havoc  in  the  heart  of  old  Josh," 

Mr.  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn't  wonder  at  it. 

"You  perfidious  goblin,"  said  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
"  have  done!    How  long  haveyoubeen  here,  bad  man?" 

"  One  day,"  replied  the  major. 

"  And  can  you  be  a  day,  or  even  a  minute."  returned 
the  lady,  slightly  settling  her  false  curls  and  false  eye- 
brows with  her  fan,  and  showing  her  false  teeth,  set  off 
by  her  false  complexion,  "  in  the  garden  of  what's-its- 
name — " 

"  Eden,  I  suppose,  mama,"  interrupted  the  young  lady, 
Bcomfully, 

"My  (fear  Edith,"  said  the  other,  "I  cannot  help  it, 
I  never  can  remember  those  frightful  names — without 
having  your  whole  soul  and  bging  inspired  by  the  sight 
of  nature;  by  the  perfume,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  rustling 
a  handkerchief  that  was  faint  and  sickly  with  essences, 
"  of  her  artless  breath,  you  creature! " 

The  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton's  fresh  en- 
thusiasm of  words,  and  forlornly  faded  manner,  was 
hardly  less  observable  than  that  between  her  age.  which 
was  about  seventy,  and  her  dress,  which  would  have 
been  youthful  for  twentv-seven.  Her  attitude  in  the 
wheeled  chair  (which  sne  never  varied)  was  one  in 
which  she  had  been  taken  in  a  barouche,  some  fifty  years 
before,  by  a  then  fashionable  artist,  who  had  appended 
to  his  published  sketch  the  name  of  Cleopatra:  in  con- 
sequence of  a  discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the  time 
that  it  bore  an  exact  resemblance  to  that  princess  as 
she  reclined  on  board  her  galley.  Mrs.  Skewfon  was  a 
beauty  then,  and  bucks  threw  wine-glasses  over  their 
heads  by  dozens  in  her  honor.  The  beauty  and  the  ba^ 
rouche  had  both  passed  away,  but  she  still  preser^eA. 


304  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  attitude  and,  for  this  reason  exproBsly,  maintaiDed 
the  wheeled  chair  and  the  butting  pii?6:  there  being 
nothing  whatever,  except  the  attitude,  to  prevent  her 
from  walkincf. 

"  Mr.  DomDey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I  truaj?"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  setthng  her  diamond  brooch.  And,  by  the 
way,  she  chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  some  dia- 
monds, and  her  family  connexions. 

"My  friend  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major, 
"may  be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a  man  who  ia 
paramount  in  the  greatest  city  in  the  universe — " 

"  No  one  can  be  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "to 
Mr.  Dombey's  immense  iunuence." 

As  Mr.  Dombev  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
bend  of  his  head,  the  younger  lady,  glancing  at  him, 
met  his  eyes. 

"You  reside  here,  madam?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ad- 
dressing her. 

"  No,  we  have  been  to  a  great  many  places.  To  Har- 
rogate, and  Scarborough,  and  into  Devonshire.  We 
have  been  visiting,  ana  resting  here  and  there.  Mama 
likes  change." 

"Edith  of  course  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  with 
a  ghastly  archness. 

"  I  have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  such 
places,"  was  the.  answer, , delivered  with  supreme  indif- 
ference. 

"  They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr,  Dom- 
bey," observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  mincing  sigh,  "  for 
which  I  really  care,  and  that  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  per- 
mitted to  enjoy.  People  cannot  spare  one.  But  seclu- 
sion and  contemplation  are  ray  what's-his-name — " 

"If  you  mean  Paradise,  mama,  you  had  better  say 
so.  to  render  yourself  intelligible,  said  the  younger 
lady. 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  you 
know  that  I  am  wholly  dependent  upon  you  for  those 
odious  names.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey,  Nature  in- 
tended me  for  an  Arcadian.  I  am  thrown  away  in  so- 
cietv.  Cows  are  my  passion.  What  I  have  ever  sighed 
for  ^as  been  to  retreat  to  a  Swiss  farm,  and  live  en- 
tirely surrounded  by  cows — and  china." 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a  re- 
membrance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake 

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DOMEEY  AND  SON.  306 

into  a  crockery  shop,  was  received  with  perfect  gravity 
by  Mr.  Dombey,  who  intimated  his  opinion  that  Nature 
was,  no  doubt,  a  very  respectable  institution. 

"  What  I  want,"  drawled  Mrs,  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shrivelled  throat,  "  is  heart."  It  was  frightfully  true  in 
one  sense,  if  not  in  that  Id  which  she  used  the  phrase. 
'■  What  I  want  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  conven- 
tionality, and  freer  play  of  soul.  We  are  so  dreadfully 
artificial." 

We  were,  indeed. 

"  In  short,"  Baid  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  want  nature  every- 
where.    It  would  be  so  extremely  charming." 

"Nature  is  inviting,  us  away  now,  mama,  if  you  are 
ready,"  said  the  younger  lady,  curling  her  handsome 
lip.  At  this  hint,  the  wan  page,  who  had  been  survey- 
ing the  party  over  the  top  of  the  chair,  vanished  behind 
it,  as  if  the  ground  had  swallowed  him  up. 

"Stop  a  moment.  Withers! "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  as 
the  chair  began  to  move;  calling  to  the  page  with  all 
the  languid  dignity  with  which  she  had  called  in  days  of 
yore  to  a  coachman  with  a  wig,  cauliflower  nosegay, 
and  silk  stockings.  "  Where  are  you  staying,  abomma- 
tion?" 

The  major  was  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  his 
friend  Dombey. 

"  You  may  come  and  see  us  any  evening  when  you 
are  good,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  If  Mr.  Dombey  will 
honor  us,  we  shall  be  happy.     Withers,  go  on!" 

The  major  again  pressed  to  his  blue  lips  the  tips  of 
the  fingers  that  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the 
wheeled  chair  with  careful  carelessness;  after  the  Cleo- 

Eatra  model:  and  Mr.  Dombey  bowed.  The  elder  lady 
onored  them  both  with  a  very  gracious  smile  and  a 
girlish  wave  of  her  hand;  the  younger  lady  with  the 
very  slightest  inclination  of  her  head  that  common 
courtesy  allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother, 
with  that  patched  color  on  it  which  the  sun  made  infi- 
nitelv  more  haggard  and  dismal  than  any  want  of  color 
could  have  been,  and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the  daugh- 
ter with  her  graceful  figure  and  erect  deportment,  en- 
fendered  such  an  involuntary  disposition  on  the  part  of 
oth  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  to  look  after  them, 
that  they  botn  turned  at  the  same  moment,    IKe  ■^%e. 


306  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

nearly  as  much  aslant  as  his  own  shadow,  was  toiliog 
after  the  chair,  up-hill,  like  a  slow  battering-ram:  the 
top  of  Cleopatra's  bonnet  was  fluttering  in  exactly  the 
same  comer  to  the  inch  as  before;  and  the  Beauty, 
loitering  by  herself  a  little  in  advance,  expressed  in  all 
her  elegant  form,  from  head  to  foot,  the  same  supreme 
disregard  of  everything  and  everybody. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  sir,'  said  the  major,  as  they  resumed 
their  walli  again.  "If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a  younger 
man,  there's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  whom  he'd  pil- 
fer for  Mrs.  Pagstock  to  that  woman.  By  Geoi^,  sirl" 
said  the  major,  "she's  superb!" 

"Do  you  mean  the  daughter? "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Joey  B.  a  turnip,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "that 
he  should  mean  the  mother!" 

"  You  were  complimentary  to  the  mother,"  returned 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"An  ancient  flame,  sir,"  chuckled  Major  Bagstock. 
"  De-vilish  ancient.     I  humor  her." 

"  She  impresses  me  ae  being  perfectly  genteel,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Genteel,  sir,"  said  the  major,  stopping  short,  and 
staring  in  his  companion's  face.  "  The  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  sir,  is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and  auiit 
to  the  present  lord.  The  family  are  not  wealthy— 
they're  poor,  indeed — and  she  lives  upon  a  small  jomt- 
ure;  but  if  vou  come  to  blood,  sir! "  The  major  gave  a 
flourish  with  his  stick  and  walked  on  again,  iu  despair 
of  being  able  to  say  what  you  came  to,  if  you  came  to 
that. 

"You  addressed  the  daughter,  I  observed,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  after  a  short  pause,  "as  Mrs.  Granger." 

"Edith  Skewton,  sir,"  returned  the  major,  stopping 
short  again,  and  punching  a  mark  in  the  ground  with 
his  cane,  to  represent  her,  "married  ^at  eighteen) 
Granger  of  Ours;  "whom  the  major  indicated  by  an- 
other punch.  "Granger,  sir,"  said  the  major,  tapping 
the  last  ideal  portrait,  and  rolling  his  head  emphati- 
cally, "was  Colonel  of  Ours;  a  de-vilish  handsome  fel- 
low, sir,  of  forty-one.  He  died,  sir,  in  the  second  year 
of  his  marriage."  The  major  ran  the  representative  of 
the  deceased  Granger  through  and  through  the  body 
with  his  walking-stick,  and  went  on  again,  carrying  his 
stick  over  his  shoulder. 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  30; 

'■  How  long  is  this  ago?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  making 
another  halt. 

"  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  replied  the  major,  shutting  one 
eye,  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into 
his  left  hand,  and  femoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his 
right,  "is,  at  this  present  time,  not  quite  thirtj;.  And, 
(lanune,  sir."  said  the  major,  shouldering  his  stick  once 
more,  and  walking  on  a^ain,  "  she's  a  peerless  womani" 

"  Was  there  any  family?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  major.     "  There  was  a  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a  shade 
came  over  his  face. 

"  Who  wafi  drowned,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  "when 
a  child  of  four  or  five  years  old." 

"  Indeed?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 

"  By  the  upsetting  i  if  a  boat  in  which  his  nurse  had  no 
business  to  have  put  him,"  said  the  major.  "  That's  Am 
history,  Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger  still;  but  if 
tough  old  Joey  E.,  sir,  were  a  little  younger  and  a  little 
richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon  should  be 
Bagstock." 

The  major  heaved  his  shouMcrs,  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles  than  ever, 
as  he  said  the  words. 

"Provided  the  ladv  made  no  objection,  I  suppose?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey  coldly. 

"By  Gad,  sir,  said  the  major,  "the  Bagstock  breed 
are  not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it's 
true  enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twen-ty 
times,  but  for  being  proud,  sir,  proud." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worse  of 
her  for  that. 

"It's  a  great  q^uality  after  all,"  said  the  major.  "  By 
the  Lord,  it's  a  high  quality!  Dombey!  You  are  proud 
yourself,  and  your  friend,  old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it, 
sir. " 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which 
seemed  to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circum- 
stances and  the  irresistible  tendency  of  their  conversa- 
tioD,  the  major  closed  the  subject,  and  glided   into  a 

Keneral  exposition  of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been 
f-loved  and  doted  on  by  splendid  women  and  brilliant 
creatures. 


308  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major 
encountered  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  ber 
daughter  in  the  pump-room;  on  the  day  after,  they  met 
them  again  very  near  the  place  where  they  had  met 
them  first.  After  meeting  them  thus,  three  or  four 
times  in  all,  it  became  a  point  of  mere  civility  to  old 
acquaintances,  that  the  major  should  go  there  one  even- 
ing. Mr.  Dombey  had  not  originally  intended  to  pay 
visits,  but  on  the  major  announcing  this  intention,  be 
said  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him. 
So  the  major  told  the  Native  to  go  round  before  dinner, 
and  say,  with  his  and  Mr.  Dombey 's  comnliments,  that 
they  would  have  the  honor  of  visiting  the  ladies  that 
same  evening,  if  the  ladies  were  alone.  In  answer  l» 
which  message,  the  Native  brought  back  a  very  small 
note  with  a  very  large  quantity  oi  scent  about  it,  indited 
by  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  to  Major  Bagstock,  and 
briefly  saying,  "You  are  a  shocking;  bear  and  I  have  a 
great  mind  not  to  forgive  you,  but  if  you  are  very  good 
indeed,"  which  was  underlined,  "  you  "may  come.  Com- 
pliments (in  which  Edith  unites)  to  Mr,  Dombey." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mre. 
Granger,  resided  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  that 
were  fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  out  ratbei 
limited  in  point  of  space  and  conveniences:  so  that  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in 
the  window  and  her  head  in  the  fireplace,  while  the  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  was  quartered  in  a  closet 
within  the  drawing-room,  so  extremely  small,  that,  to 
avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its  accommodations,  she 
was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of  the  door  like  a 
beautiful  serpent.  Withers,  the  wan  page,  slept  out  of 
the  house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a  neighboring 
milk-shop;  and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone 
of  that  young  Sisyphus,  passed  the  night  in  a  shed  be- 
longing to  the  same  dairy,  where  new-laid  eggs  were 
produced  by  the  poultry  connected  with  the  establish- 
ment, who  roosted  on  a  broken  donkey -cart — persuaded, 
to  all  appearance,  that  it  grew  there,  and  was  a  species 
of  tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  found  Mrs.  Skewton  ai^ 
ranged,  as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a  sofa; 
very  airily  dressed;  and  certamly  not  resembling  Shaks- 
peare's  Cfleopatra,  whom  age  could  not  wither.     On 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  309 

their  way  up-stairs  they  had  heard  the  sound  of  a  harp, 
hut  it  had  ceased  on  their  heing  announced,  and  Edith 
now  stood  beside  it  handsomer  and  hauehtier  than  ever. 
It  was  a  remarkahle  characteristic  of  this  lady's  beauty 
that  it  appeared  to  vaunt  and  assert  itself  without  her 
aid,  and  against  her  will.  She  knew  that  she  was  beaU' 
tiful;  it  was  impossible  that  it  could  be  otherwise:  but 
she  8eemed  with  her  own  pride  to  defy  her  very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap,  attractions  that  could  only 
call  forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or 
whether  she  designed  to  render  them  more  precious  to 
admirers  by  this  usage  of  them,  tliose  to  whom  they 
were  precious  seldom  paused  to  consider. 

"  I  nope,  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
a  step  towards  her,  "we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceas- 
ing to  play?" 

"  Vouf  oh  no!" 

"Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith?" 
said  Cleopatra. 

"  I  left  off  as  I  began — of  my  own  fancy." 

The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying 
this:  an  indifference  quite  removed  from  dullness  or  in^ 
sensibility,  for  it  was  pointed  with  proud  purpose:  was 
well  set  off  by  the  carelessness  with  which  she  drew 
her  hand  across  the  strings,  aud  came  from  that  part 
of  the  room, 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing 
mother,  playing  with  a  hand-screen,  "  that  occasionally 
my  dearest  Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ —  " 

"  Not  quite,  sometimes,  mama? "  said  EMith. 

"  Oh  never  quite,  my  darling!  Fie,  fie,  it  would  break 
my  heart,"  returned  her  mother,  making  a  faint  at- 
tempt to  pat  her  with  the  screen,  which  Edith  made  no 
movement  to  meet,  " — about  these  cold  conventional- 
ities of  manner  that  are  observed  in  little  things?  Why 
are  we  not  more  natural!  Dear  me!  With  all  those 
yearnings,  and  gushings,  and  impulsive  throbbings  that 
we  have  implanted  in  our  souls,  and  which  are  so  very 
charming,  why  are  we  not  more  natural?" 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

"We  could  be  more  natural  I  suppose  if  we  tried?" 
said  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.     "  "We  cwAiisiV 


310  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  J.  B,'s— 
touRh  and  blunt  old  Joes,  ma'Am,  plain  red  herrings 
with  hard  roes,  sir — we  couldn't  afford  it.  It  wouldn't 
do." 

"  You  naughty  infidel,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  ■'  be  mute." 

"  Cleopatra  commands,"  returned  the  major,  kissing 
his  hand,  "and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys." 

"The  man  has  no  sensitivenesB,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
cruelly  holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the 
major  out.  "  No  sympathy.  And  what  do  we  live  for 
bid  sympathy!  what  else  is  so  extremely  charming! 
Without  that  gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold  coM 
earth,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace  tucker, 
and  complacently  observing  the  effect  of  her  bare  lean 
arm,  looking  upward  from  the  wrist,  "how  could  we 
possibly  bear  it?  In  short,  obdurate  man! "glancing  at 
the  major,  round  the  screen,  "I  would  have  my  world 
all  heart;  and  Faith  is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I 
won't  allow  you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear?" 

The  major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to  re- 
quire the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate  to 
herself  the  hearts  of  all  the  world;  which  obliged  Cleo- 

Eatra  to  remind  him  that  flattery  was  insupportable  to 
er,  and  that  if  he  had  the  boldness  to  address  her  in 
that  strain  any  more,  she  would  positively  send  hira 
home. 

Withers  the  Wan,  at  this  period,  handing  round  the 
tea,  Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

"There  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous  gentlemanly 
way. 

"  I  believe  not.     We  see  none." 

"Why  really,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  from  her 
couch,  "  there  are  no  people  here  just  now  with  whom 
we  care  to  associate." 

"They  have  not  enough  heart,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
smile.  The  very  twilight  of  a  smile:  so  singularly  were 
its  light  and  darkness  mended. 

■'My  dearest  Edith  raltie8me,yoU8eel"  said  her  mother, 
shaking  her  head:  which  shook  a  little  of  itself  some 
times,  as  if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  diamonds.     "Wicked  one!" 

"  You  have  been  here  before,  if  I  am  not  mistaken?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey.    Still  to  Edith. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  311 

"Oh,  several  times.  I  think  we  have  been  every 
where. " 

"  A  beautiful  country!" 

"  I  suppose  it  is.     Everybody  says  so." 

"  Your  cousin  Peenix  raves  about  it  Edith,"  interposed 
her  mother  from  her  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and 
raising  her  eyebrows  by  a  hair's-breadth  as  if  her  cousin 
Feenix  were  of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  re- 
garded, turned  her  eyes  again  towards  Mr.  Dombey. 

"I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I  am 
tired  of  the  neighborhood,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  almost  reason  to  be,  madam,"  he  replied, 

f lancing  a  variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he 
ad  already  recognised  several  as  representing  neigh- 
boring points  of  view,  and  which  were  strewn  abund- 
antly about  the  room,  "if  these  beautiful  productions 
are  from  your  hand." 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a  disdainful  beauty, 
quite  amazing. 

"Have  they  that  interest?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "Are 
they  yours?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  play,  I  already  know." 

"  Yes.'"^ 

"And  sing?" 

"  Yes." 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a  strange  re- 
luctance: and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition 
to  herself,  already  noticed  as  belonging  to  her  Deauty. 
Yet  she  was  not  embarrassed,  but  wholly  self-possessed. 
Neither  did  she  seem  to  wish  to  avoid  the  conversation, 
for  she  addressed  her  face,  and— so  far  as  slie  could — 
her  manner  also,  to  him;  and  continued  to  do  so,  when 
he  was  silent. 

"  You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at 
least,"  said  Mr.  DomoCT. 

"Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,"  she  returned, 
■■  you  know  them  all  now,     I  have  no  more." 

"May  I  hope  to  prove  them  all?"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a  drawing  he  had 
held,  and  motioning  towards  the  harp. 

"  Oh  certainlyl    If  you  desire  itl " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  \ieT  xno'tXY^^''^ 


312  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

couch,  and  directing  a  stately  look  towards  her,  which 
was  instantaDeous  in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  an; 
one  had  seen  it)  of  a  multitude  of  expressioDB,  among 
which  that  of  the  twilight  smile,  without  the  smile 
itself,  overshadowed  all  the  rest,  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had 
wheeled  a  littta  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting 
down  to  play  picquet  with  her,  Mr,  Dombey,  not  know- 
ing the  game,  sat  down  to  watch  them  for  his  edification 
until  Edith  should  return. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  some  music,  Mr.  Dombey,  I 
hope? "  said  Cleopatra. 

"  Mrs.  Granger  has  been  kind  enough  to  promise  BO," 
said  Mr,  Dombey, 

"  Ah:    That's  very  nice.     Do  you  propose,  major?  " 

"  No  ma'am,"  said  the  major,     "  Couldn't  do  it." 

'■  You're  a  barbarous  being,"  replied  the  lady,  "and 
my  hand's  destroyed.  You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr. 
Dombey? " 

■*  Eminently  so,"  was  Mr.  Dombey's  answer. 

"  Yes.  It's  very  nice,"  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her 
cards.  "So  mucn  heart  in  it — undeveloped  recollec- 
tions of  a  previous  state  of  existence — and  all  that— 
which  is  so  truly  charming.  Do  you  know,"  simpered 
Cleopatra,  reversing  the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come 
into  her  game  with  his  heels  uppermost,  "  that  if  any- 
thing could  tempt  me  to  put  a  period  to  my  life,  it 
would  be  curiosity  trf  find  out  what  it's  all  about,  and 
what  it  means;  there  are  so  many  provoking  mysteries, 
really,  that  are  hidden  from  us.     Major,  you  to  play!'' 

The  major  played;  and  Mr.  Dombey  looking  on  for 
his  instruction  would  soon  have  been  in  a  state  of  dire 
confusion  but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game 
whatever,  and  sat  wondering  instead  when  Edith  would 
come  back. 

She  came  at  last,  and  eat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr. 
Dombey  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  listening.  He  had 
little  taste  for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain 
she  jplayed,  but  he  saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps 
he  heard  among  the  sounding  strings  some  distant 
music  of  his  own.  that  tamed  tne  monster  of  the  iron 
road,  and  made  it  less  inexorable. 

Cleopatra  had  a  sharp  eye,  verily,  at  picquet.  It 
glistened  like  a  bird's,  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the 


Digilizcdt,  Google 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  313 

game,  but  pierced  the  room  from  end  to  end,  and 
gleamed  on  harp,  performer,  listener,  evsrythtng. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose, 
and  receiving  Mr.  Dombey  s  thanks  and  compliments 
in  exactly  the  same  manner  as  before  went,  with 
scarcely  any  pause,  to  the  piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that!  Edith  Granger, 
vou  are  very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the 
beys  is  brilliant,  and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich;  but 
not  the  air  that  his  neglected  daughter  sang  to  his 
dead  son! 

Alas,  he  knows  it  not;  and  if  he  did,  what  air  of 
hers  would  stir  him,  rigid  man!  Sleep,  lonely  Flor- 
ence, sleep!  Peace  in  thy  dreams,  although  the  nigbt 
has  turned  dark,  and  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and 
threaten  to  dischaige  themselves  in  bail! 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

A  TRIFLE  OF  HANAOBMEKT  BY  HR.  CARKER  THE  HANAORR. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  at  his  desk,  smooth  and 
soft  as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  re- 
served for  him  to  open,  backing  them  occasionally 
with  such  memoranda  and  references  as  their  business 
purport  required,  and  parcelling  them  out  into  little 
neaps  for  distribution  through  the  several  departments 
of  the  house.  The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that 
morning,  and  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  had  a  good 
deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a  man  so  engaged— pausing 
to  look  over  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing 
them  round  in  various  portions,  taking  up  another 
bundle  and  examining  its  contents  with  knitted  brows 
and  pursed-out  lips — dealing,  and  sorting,  and  ponder- 
ing by  turns — would  easily  suggest  some  whimsical 
resemolance  to  a  player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr. 
Carker  the  manager  was  in  good  keeping  with  such 
a  fancy-  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  studi'eA.  V\s 
play,  warily:  who  made   himself  maatet  ot  s.\\  ^^ 


314  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

strong  and  weak  points  of  the  game:  who  roistered 
the  cards  in  his  mind  as  (hey  fell  about  him,  knew 
exactly  what  was  on  them,  what  they  missed,  and 
what  they  made:  who  was  crafty  to  find  out  what  the 
other  players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed  his  own 
hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  lang^uages,  but  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  anythiua; 
in  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  not  read, 
there  would  have  been  a  card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He 
read  almost  at  a  glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one 
letter  with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as  he 
went  on,  adding  new  matter  to  the  heaps — giuch  as  a 
man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight,  and  work  out  their 
combinations  in  his  mind  after  theT  were  turned. 
Something  too  deep  for  a  partner,  and  much  too  deep 
for  an  adversary,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  in  the 
rays  of  the  sun  that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through 
the  sky-light,  playing  his  game  alone. 

And  althougn  it  is  not  among  the  instincts,  wild  or  do- 
mestic, of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from  sole 
to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  he  basked  in 
the  strip  of  summer-light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon 
his  table  and  the  ground  as  if  they  were  a  crooked  dial- 
plate,  and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair  and 
whiskers  deficient  in  color  at  all  times,  but  feebler  than 
common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like  the  coat  of 
a  sandy  tortoise-shell  cat;  with  long  nails,  nicely  pared, 
and  sharpened ;  with  a  natural  antipathy  to  any  speck 
of  dirt,  which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch 
the  falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth 
white  hand  or  glossy  linen  i  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
sly  of  manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft  of  foot,  watchfiu  of 
eye,  oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of  heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat 
with  a  dainty  steadfastness  and  patience  at  his  work, 
as  if  he  were  waiting  at  a  mouse's  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one 
which  he  reserve<l  for  a  particular  audience.  Having 
locked  the  more  confidential  correspondence  in  a  drawer, 
Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rang  his  hell. 

"  Why  do  yov  answer  it:-"  was  the  reception  of  bis 
brother. 

"  The  messenger  is  out,  and  I  am  the  next,"  was  the 
submissive  reply. 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  316 

"You  are  the  next?"  muttered  the  manager.  "  Yes! 
Creditable  to  me !    There ! " 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  dib- 
dainfuUy  away  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal 
of  that  one  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,"  said  the  brother, 
gathering  them  up,  "but—" 

•'Oh!  You  have  something  to  say.  I  knew  that. 
Well?" 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn 
them  on  his  brother,  hut  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though 
without  opening  it. 

"  Well?"  he  repeated  sharply. 

'*  I  am  uneasy  about  Harriet." 

"  Harriet  who?  what  Harriet?  I  know  nobody  of  that 
name." 

"  She  is  not  well,  and  has  changed  very  much  of 
late.'' 

"  She  changed  very  much,  a  great  many  years  ago," 
replied  the  manager;  "  and  that  is  all  I  have  to  say. 

"  I  think  if  you  would  hear  me^" 

"  Why  should  I  hear  you,  Brother  John?"  returned 
the  manager,  laying  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two 
words,  and  throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his 
eyes.  "  I  tell  you,  Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice 
many  years  ago  between  her  two  brothers.  She  may 
repent  it,  but  wie  must  abide  by  it." 

"  Don't  mistake  me.  I  do  not  say  she  does  repent  it. 
It  would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  such  a 
thing,"  returned  the  other.  "  Though  believe  me, 
James,  I  am  as  sorry  for  her  sacrifice  a,s  you." 

"  As  I?  "  exclaimed  the  manager.     "  As  I?  " 

"  As  sorry  for  her  choice— for  what  you  call  her  choice 
— as  you  are  angry  at  it,"  said  the  Junior. 

"  Angry?  "  repeated  ithe  other,  with  a  wide  show  of 
bis  teeui. 

"  Displeased.  Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You 
know  my  meaning.  There  is  no  offence  in  my  inten- 
tion," 

"There  is  offence  in  everything  you  do,"  replied  his 
brother,  glancing  at  him  with  a  sudden  scowl,  which  in 
a  moment  gave  place  to  a  wider  smile  than  the  last. 
"  Carry  those  papers  away,  if  you  please.    I  am.  bu*^ ," 

His  politeness  was  so  much  more  cuttimc  t\vatvV\9. 


316  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wrath,  that  the  Junior  went  to  the  door.     But  stopping 
at  it,  and  looking  round,  he  said: 

"When  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with 
you,  on  your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  dis- 

frace;  and  when  she  left  you,  James,  to  follow  my 
roken  fortunes,  and  devote  herself,  in  her  mistaken 
affection,  to  a  ruined  brother,  because  without  her  he 
had  no  one,  and  was  lost;  she  was  young  and  pretty.  I 
think  if  you  could  see  her  now— if  you  would  go  and 
see  her — she  would  move  your  admiration  and  compas- 

The  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teetb. 
as  who  fihouTd  say,  in  answer  to  some  careless  small- 
talk,  "  Dear  me  1  Is  that  the  case?"  but  said  never  a 
word. 

"  "We  thought  in  those  days:  you  and  I  both:  that  she 
would  marry  young,  and  lead  a  nappy  and  light-hearted 
life,"  pursued  the  other.  "  Oh  if  you  knew  now  cheer- 
fully she  cast  those  hopes  away;  how  cheerfully  she 
has  gone  forward  on  the  path  she  took,  and  never  once 
looked  back;  you  never  could  say  again  that  her  name 
was  strange  in  your  ears.     Never! " 

Again  the  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his 
teeth,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Remarkable  indeed!  You 
quite  surprised  me!"  And  again  be  uttered  never  ft 
word. 

"May  I  go  on?"  said  John  Carker,  mildly. 

"On  your  way?"  replied  his  smiling  brother.  "If 
you  will  have  the  goodness." 

John  Oarker,  with  a  sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at 
the  door,  when  his  brother's  voice  detamed  hun  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

"  If  she  has  gone  and  goes  her  own  way  cheerfully," 
he  said,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk, 
and  putting  his  hands  firmly  in  his  pocket,  "you  may 
tell  her  that  I  go  as  cheerfully  on  mine.  If  she  has 
never  once  looked  back,  you  may  tell  her  that  I  have, 
sometimes,  to  recall  her  taking  part  with  you,  and  that 
my  resolution  is  no  easier  to  wear  away;"  he  smiled 
very  sweetly  here;  "  than  marble." 

"  I  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about 
you.  Once  a  year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  always, 
'  Let  us  remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him  happy,' 
but  we  say  no  more." 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  317 

"  Tell  it  then,  if  you  please,"  returned  the  other,  "  to 
yourself.     You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a  lesson  to 

Sou  to  avoid  the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.  I  know  no 
[arriet  Carker.  There  is  no  such  person.  You  may 
have  a  sister;  make  much  of  her.     I  have  none." 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a  smile  of  mock  courtesy  towards  the 
door.  Unfolding  it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  look- 
ing darkly  after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  he  once  more 
turned  round  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  applied  himself  to 
a  diligent  perusal  of  its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr.  Dombey, 
and  dated  from  Leamington.  Though  he  was  a  quick 
reader  of  all  other  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  this  slowly; 
weighing  the  words  as  he  went,  and  bringing  every 
tooth  in  his  head  to  bear  upon  them.  When  he  had 
read  it  through  once,  he  turned  it  over  again,  and 
picked  out  these  passages.  "  I  find  myself  benefited  by 
the  change,  and  am  not  yet  inclined  to  name  any  time 
for  my  return."  "  I  wish,  Carker,  you  would  arrange  to 
come  down  once  and  see  me  here,  and  let  me  knowTiow 
things  are  going  on,  in  person."  "  I  omitted  to  speak  to 
you  about  young  Gay.  If  not  gone  per  Sou  and  Heir, 
or  if  Son  and  Heir  still  lying  in  the  Docks,  appoint  some 
other  young  man  and  Keep  him  in  the  city  for  the 
present,  I  am  not  decided."  "Now  that's  unfortunate;  " 
said  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  expanding  his  mouth,  as 
if  it  were  made  of  india-rubber:  "  for  he^s  far  away!  " 

Still  that  passage  which  was  in  a  postscript  attracted 
his  attention  and  nis  teeth,  once  more. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "ray  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle 
mentioned  something  about  being  towed  along  in  the 
wake  of  that  day.     What  a  pity  he's  so  far  away!  " 

He  refolded  the  latter,  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it 
standing  it  long-wise  and  broad-wise  on  his  table,  and 
turning  it  over  and  over  on  all  sides — doing  pretty  much 
the  same  thing  perhaps,  by  its  contents — when  Mr. 
Perch  the  messenger  knocked  softly  at  the  door  and, 
coming  in  on  tiptoe,  bending  his  body  at  every  step  as 
if  it  were  the  delight  of  his  life  to  bow,  laid  some  papers 
on  the  table. 

"  Would  you  please  to  be  engaged,  sir?"  asked  Mr. 
Perch,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentially  puttina  YvSb 
head  on  one  side  like  a  man  who  felt  he  WA  ao  ooav 


31i  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

nees  to  hold  it  up  in  such  a  presence,  and  would  keep  it 
as  much  out  of  toe  way  as  possible. 

"  Who  wants  me?" 

•'  Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a  soft  voice,  "  really 
nobody,  sir,  to  speak  of  at  present.  Mr.  Gills  theShipe 
Instrument- maker,  sir,  has  looked  in,  about  a  little 
matter  of  payment,  he  says;  but  I  mentioned  to  him. 
sir,  that  you  was  enffa£;ed  several  deep;  several  deep." 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  Dand,  and  waited 
for  further  orders. 

"Anybody  else?" 

"Well  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "I  wouldn't  of  my- own 
self  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning  that  there  was  any- 
body else;  but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here  yes- 
terday, sir,  and  last  week,  has  been  hanging  aboutthe 
place;  and  it  looks,  sir,'"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping  to 
shut  the  door.  "  dreadful  unbusiness-like  to  see  him 
whistling  to  the  sparrows  down  the  court,  and  making 
of  'em  answer  him." 

"  You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you. 
Perch? "asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  at  that  officer. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Perch,  coughing  I>ehind  his 
hand  again,  "  his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was 
in  wants  of  a  sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered  8(ime- 
thing  might  be  done  for  him  about  the  Docks,  being 
used  to  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line:  but — "  Mr  Perch 
shook  his  head  very  dubiously  indeed, 

"What  does  he  say  when  he  comes?"  asked  Mr, 
Carker, 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another 
cough  behind  his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resource 
as  an  expression  of  humility  when  nothing  else  oc- 
curred to  him,  "  his  observation  generally  air  that  he 
would  humbly  wish  to  see  one  of  the  gentlemen,  and 
that  he  wants  to  earn  a  living.  But  you  see,  sir,"  added 
Perch,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  turning,  in 
the  inviolaole  nature  of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door 
a  thrust  with  his  hand  and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut 
it  any  more  when  it  was  shut  already,  "  it's  hardly  to 
be  bore,  sir,  that  a  common  lad  like  that  should  come  a 
prowling  here,  and  saying  that  his  mother  nursed  our 
House's  young  gentleman,  and  he  hopes  our  House  will 
give  him  a  chance  on  that  account,    1  am  sure,  sir,"  oh- 


DOMBEY  AND  SUN.  319 

Bcrved  Mr.  Perch,  "  that  although  Mrs.  Perch  was  at 
that  time  uiirsiiig  as  thriving  a  tittle  girl,  Bir,  as  we've 
ever  took  the  liberty  pf  adding  to  our  family,  I  wouldn't 
have  made  so  free  as  drop  a  hint  of  her  being  capable 
of  imparting  nourishnuent,  not  if  it  was  evar  so! " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a  shark,  but  in  an  ab- 
sent thoughtful  manner. 

"  Whether,"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a  short  si- 
lence, and  another  cough,  "it  mightn't  be  best  for  me 
to  tell  him,  that  if  he  was  seen  here  any  more  he  would 
be  given  into  custody;  and  to  keep  to  iti  With  respect 
to  bodily  fear,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "rm  so  timid,  myself, 
by  nature,  sir,  and  my  nerves  is  so  unstrung  by  Mrs. 
Perch's  state,  that  I  could  take  my  affidavit  easy." 

"  Let  me  see  this  fellow,  Perch,"  said  Mr.  Carker, 
"Bring  him  in!" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Begging  yourpardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
hesitating  at  the  door,  "hesrough,  sir,  in  appearance." 

"Nevermind.  If  he's  there,  bring  him  m.  I'll  see 
Mr.  Gills  directly.     Ask  him  to  wait!" 

Mr.  Perch  bowed;  and  shutting  the  door  as  precisely 
and  carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coining  back  for  a  week, 
went  on  his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court. 
While  he  was  gone  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favorite 
attitude  before  the  fire-place,  and  stood  looking  at  the 
door;  presenting,  with  liis  under  lip  tucked  mto  the 
smile  that  showed  his  whole  row  of  upper  teeth,  a  sin- 
gularly crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by 
a  pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the 
passage  like  boxes.  With  the  unceremonious  words 
"  Come  along  with  you!" — a  very  unusual  form  of  in- 
troduction from  his  lips — Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into 
the  presence  a  strongly-built  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a 
round  red  face,  a  round  sleek  head,  round  black  eyes. 
round  limbs,  and  round  body,  who,  to  carry  out  the 
general  rotundity  of  his  appearance,  had  a  round  hat 
m  his  hand,  without  a  particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a  nod  from  Mr.  Carker,.Perch  had  no 
sooner  confronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than 
he  withdrew.  The  moment  thev  were  face  to  face 
alone,  Mr.  Carker,  without  a  word  of  preparation,  took 
him  by  the  throat,  and  shook  him  until  his  head  seeicueA 
loose  upon  his  shoulders. 


320  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment  could 
not  help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  many 
white  teeth,  who  was  choking  hini,  and  at  the  office 
walla,  aa  though  determined,  if  he  M;er«  choked,  that  his 
last  look  aheuld  be  at  the  mysteriea  for  hia  intrusioD 
into  which  he  was  paying  sucn  a  aevere  penalty,  at  lasl 
contrived  to  utter — 

"  Come  sir!    You  let  me  alone,  will  you!  " 

"  Let  you  alone!  "  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  What!  I  have 
got  you,  have  I?"  There  was  no  doubt  of  that,  and 
tightly  too.  "You  dog,"  said  Mr,  Carjcer,  through  his 
aet  jaws,  "I  '11  atrangleyou!" 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though?  oh  no  he  wouldn't 
— and  what  was  he  doing  of — and  why  didn't  he  stran- 
gle somebody  of  his  own  size  and  not  hhn:  but  Bikr 
waa  quelled  by  the  extraordinary  nature  of  hia  reception, 
and,  aa  hia  head  became  stationary,  and  he  looked  the 
gentleman  in  the  face,  or  rather  in  the  teeth,  and  saw 
him  snarling  at  him,  he  ao  far  foi^ot  his  manhood  as  to 
cry. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you,  sir,"  said  Biler. 
otherwise  Eob,  otherwiae  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

"  You  young  scoundrel!  "  replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly 
releasing  him,  and  moving  back  a  atep  into  his  favorite 
position.  "What  do  you  mean  by  daring  to  come 
here?" 

"I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob,  put- 
ting one  hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  Knuckles  of  the 
other  to  his  eyes.  "  I'll  never  come  again,  sir.  I  only 
wanted  work." 

"Work,  :?ounfi;  Cain  that  you  are!"  repeated  Mr, 
Carker,  eyeing  him  narrowly.  "An't  you  the  idlest 
vagabond  in  London?" 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly  that  he  could 
not  say  a  word  in  denial.  He  atood  looking  at  the  gen- 
tleman, therefore,  with  a  frightened,  self-convicted, 
and  remorseful  air.  As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may 
be  observed  that  he  was  fascinated  by  Mr,  Carker,  and 
never  took  his  round  eyes  off  him  for  an  instant. 

"  An't  you  a  thief? "  said  Mr,  Carker,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  in  his  pockets. 

"  No,  air,"  pleaded  Rob. 

"You  are!     aaid  Mr.  Carker. 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3^1 

'■  I  an't  indeed,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  I  never  did 
uch  a  thing  as  thieve,  air,  if  you'll  believe  me.  I  know 
"ve  been  going  wrong,  sir,  ever  since  I  took  to  bird- 
^atching  and  walking-matching.  I'm  sure  a  cove  might 
hink,"  said  Mr.  Toodle  junior,  with  a  burst  of  peni- 
ence,  "that  singing  birds  was  innocent  company,  but 
lobody  knows  what  harm  is  in  them  little  creetura, 
md  what  they  brings  you  down  to." 

They  seemed  to  nave  brought  kim  down  to  a  vel- 
veteen jacket  and  trouaers  very  much  the  worse  for 
wear,  a  particularly  small  red  waistcoat  like  a  gorget, 
^n  interval  of  blue  check,  and  the  hat  before  mentioned, 

"I  an't  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got 
;heir  will  of  me,"  said  Rob,  "  and  that's  ten  montlis. 
Sow  can  I  go  home  when  evervbody'a  miserable  to  see 
nel  I  wonder,"  said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and 
imearing  his  eyes  with  his  coat-cuff,  "that  I  haven't 
been  and  drownded  myself  over  and  over  again." 

All  of  which,  includmg  his  expression  of  surprise  at 
not  having  achievtrd  this  last  scarce  performance,  the 
boy  said,  just  as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out 
of  him,  and  he  had  no  power  of  concealing  anything 
with  that  battery  of  attraction  in  full  play. 

"You're  a  nice  young  gentleman!"  said  Mr.  Carker, 
shaking  his  head  at  him.  "There's  hemp-seed  sown 
for  you,  my  fine  fellow! " 

"I'm  sure,  sir,"  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubber- 
ing again,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff: 
"  I  shouldn't  care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too. 
My  misfortunes  all  began  in  wagging,  sir;  but  what 
could  I  do,  exceptin'  wag?  " 

"  Excepting  what?"'  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Wag,  air.     Wagging  from  school." 

"  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not 
going?"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  wagging,  sir,"  returned  the  quon- 
dam Grinder,  much  affecteiT  "I  was  chivied  through 
the  streets,  sir,  when  I  went  there,  and  pounded  when 
I  got  there.  So  I  wagged,  and  hid  myself,  and  that 
began  it." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
him  by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arm's- 
length,  and  surveying  him  in  silence  for  some  nio- 
mente.  "  that  you  want  a  place,  do  you?" 


:in  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

"I  should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  sir,"  returned 
Toodle  junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  pushed  him  backwards  into 
a  corner — the  boy  submitting  quietly,  hardly  venturing 
to  breathe,  and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  his 
face — and  ran^  the  bell. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here." 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or 
recognition  of  the  figure  in  the  corner:  and  Uncle  Sol 
appeared  immediatei>\ 

"Mr.  Gillsl"  said  Carker,  with  a  smile,  "sit  down. 
How  do  you  do?  You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  1 
hope?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
"  Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.  Twenty-five, 
sir," 

"You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,"  rephed 
the  smiling  manager,  taking  a  paper  from  one  of  his 
many  drawers,  ana  making  an  endorsement  on  it,  while 
Uncle  Sol  looked  over  him,  '  as  one  of  your  own  chro- 
nometers.   Quite  right,"' 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  J  find  by  the 
list,  sir,'"  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a  slight  addition  to  the 
usual  tremor  in  hi.s  voice. 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,"  returned 
Carker. 

"  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuous  weather,  Mr. 
Gills,  and  she  has  probably  been  driven  out  of  her 
course.'" 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  HeavenI "'  said  Old  Sol, 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  HeavenI "  assented  Mr.  Carker 
in  that  voiceless  manner  of  his:  which  made  the  observ- 
ant young  Toodle  tremble  again.  "  Mr.  Gills,"  he  added 
aloud,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "you  must 
miss  your  nephew  very  much?  " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and 
heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing 
round  his  mouth,  and  looking  up  into  the  Instrument- 
maker's  face,  "  it  would  he  company  to  you  to  have  a 
fellow  in  your  shop  just  now,  and  it  would  be  obliging 
me  if  you  would  give  one  house-room  for  the  present. 
Xo,  to   be   sure,"  Tie  added   quickly,  in   anticipation  of 


DOMBEY  AKD  BON.  323 

what  the  old  man  was  going  to  say,  there  's  not  much 
business  doing  there,  I  know:  but  you  can  make  hira 
clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instruments;  drudge, 
Mr.  Gills.     That's  the  lad!" 

Sol  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead 
to  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  junior  standing  upright 
in  the  corner:  his  head  presenting  the  appearance 
(which  it  always  did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out 
of  a  bucket  of  cold  water;  his  small  waistcoat  rising  and 
falling  quickly  in  the  play  of  his  emotions;  and  his  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  Mr.  Carker,  without  the  least  refer- 
ence to  his  proposed  master. 

"  Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr,  Gills?"  said  the 
manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  heing  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  sub- 
ject, replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  how- 
ever slight,  to  oblige  Mr.  Carker,  whose  wish  on  such  a 
point  was  a  command:  and  that  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man would  consider  himself  happy  to  receive  in  hie 
berth  any  visitor  of  Mr,  Corker's  selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  bottoms  of 
his  gums:  making  the  watchful  Toofjle  junior  tremble 
more  and  more:  and  acknowledged  the  Instrument- 
maker's  politeness  in  his  most  affable  manner. 

"  I  'II  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr.  Gills."  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  "  until  I 
make  up  my  mind  what  to  do  witn  him,  and  what  he 
deserves.  As  I  considermyself  responsible  for  him,  Mr. 
Gills,"  here  he  smiled  a  wide  smile  at  Rob,  who  shook 
before  it:  "  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  '11  look  sharply  after 
him,  and  report  his  behavior  to  me.  I  '11  ask  a  question 
or  two  of  his  parents  as  I  ride  home  this  afternoon — 
respectable  people — to  confirm  some  particulars  in  his 
own  account  of  himself;  and  that  done,  Mr.  Gills,  I'll 
send  him  round  to  you  to-morrow  morning.  Good  by!" 

His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  con- 
fused old  Sol,  and  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable. 
He  went  home,  thinking  of  raging  seas,  foundering 
ships,  drowning  men,  an  ancient  nottle  of  Madeira 
never  brought  to  liffht.  and  other  dismal  matter. 

"Now,  bov!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hand  on 
young  Toodle's  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.   ,  "  You  have  heard  me";" 

Rob  said,  "Yes.  sir." 


SU  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  PerhapB  you  understand,"  pursued  his  patron, ''  that 
if  you  ever  deceive  or  play  tricks  with  me,  you  bad 
better  have  drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all,  be- 
fore you  came  here?" 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acquisi- 
tion that  Bob  seemed  to  understand  better  than  that.      « 

"If  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  "in  any- 
thing, never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may 
let  me  find  you  waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your 
mother's  house  this  afternoon.  I  shall  leave  this  at  five 
o'clock,  and  ride  on  horseback.  Now  give  me  the  ad- 
dress. " 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carter  wrote  it  down. 
Rob  even  spelt  it  over  a  second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as 
if  he  thought  that  the  omission  of  a  dot  or  scratch  would 
lead  to  his  destruction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him 
out  of  the  room:  and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  patron  to  the  last,  vanished  for  the  time  being. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  a  great  deal  of  business 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a 
great  many  people.  In  the  office,  in  the  court,  in  the 
street,  and  on  'Change,  they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a 
terrible  extent.  Five  o'clock  arriving,  and  wth  it  Mr. 
Carker's  bay  horse,  they  got  on  horseback,  and  went 
gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  if  inclined  to  do 
so,  through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  city  at  that  hour, 
and  as  Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went  leisurely 
along,  picking  his  way  amoue  the  carts  and  carriages, 
avoiding  whenever  he  could  tne  wetter  and  more  dirty 
places  in  the  over-watered  road,  and  taking  infinite 
pains  to  keep  himself  and  his  steed  clean.  Glancing  at 
the  passers-by  while  he  was  thus  ambling  on  his  way, 
he  suddenly  encountered  the  round  eyes  of  the  sleek- 
headed  Rob  intently  fixed  upon  his  face,  as  if  they  had 
never  been  taken  off,  while  the  boy  himself,  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a  speckled  eel  and 
girded  round  his  waist,  made  a  very  conspicuous  de- 
monstration of  being  prepared  to  attend  upon  him,  at 
whatever  pace  he  might  think  proper  to  go. 

This  attention,  however  flattering,  bemg  one  of  an 
unusual  kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other 
passengers,  Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a  clearer 
thoroughfare  and  a  cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a  trot. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  33t. 

Rob  immediately  did  the  same.  Mr.  Carker  presently 
tried  a  canter;  Rob  was  etiU  in  attendance.  Then  a 
short  gallop;  it  was  all  one  to  the  boy.  Whenever  Mr. 
Carker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side  of  the  road,  he  still 
saw  Toodle  junior  holding  his  course,  apparently  with- 
out distress,  and  working  himBelf  along  by  the  elbows 
after  the  most  approved  manner  of  professional  gentle- 
men who  get  over  the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a  sign  of  an 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore  Mr. 
Carker,  affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Mr.  Toodle's  house.  On  his  slackening 
his  pace  here,  Rob  appeared  before  him  to  point  out  the 
turnings;  and  when  he  called  to  a  man  at  a  neighboring 
gateway  to  hold  his  horse,  pending  his  visit  to  the  Build- 
ings that  had  succeeded  Staggs's  Gardens,  Rob  dutifully 
hdd  the  stirrup,  while  the  manager  dismounted. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the  shoul- 
der, "come  alongl" 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting 
the  parental  abode':  but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  be- 
fore, he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door, 
and  suffer  himself  to  be  walked  into  the  midst  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  mustered  in  overwhelming  force 
round  the  family  tea-table.  At  sight  of  tlie  prodigal  in 
the  grasp  of  a  stranger,  these  tender  relations  united  in 
a  general  howl,  which  smote  upon  the  prodigal's  breast 
so  sharply  when  he  saw  bis  mother  stand  up  among 
thf  m  pale  and  trembling,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms, 
that  he  lent  his  own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr. 
Ketch  in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole 
of  the  young  family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more 
infantine  members,  unable  to  control  the  transports  of 
emotion  appertaining  to  their  time  of  life,  threw  them- 
selves on  their  backs  like  young  birds  when  terrified  by 
ft  hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At  length,  poor  Polly 
making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quivering  lips,  "O 
Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at  last!" 

"Notning,  mother,"  cried  Rob,  in  a  piteous  voice; 
■ '  ask  the  gentleman  1 " 

■■Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  want  to  do 
:  ira  good." 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  whoh¥i4'ao^;e^^'^ftX, 


326  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Iiegan  to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to 
have  been  meditating  a  rescue,  uncIeDched  their  fists. 
The  younger  Toodles  clustered  round  their  mother's 
gown,  and  peeped  from  under  their  own  chuhby  arms 
at  their  desperado  brother  and  his  unknown  friend. 
Everybody  blessed  the  gentleman  with  the  beautiful 
teeth,  who  wanted  to  do  good. 

"This  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  hiroa 
gentle  shake,  "  is  your  son,  eh,  ma'am?' 

"Yes,  sir,"  sobbed  Polly,  with  a  curtsey;  "yes,  sir." 

"A  bad  son,  I  am  afraid?"'  said  Mr,  Carker. 

"  Never  a  bad  son  to  me,  sir,"  returned  Polly. 

"  To  whom  then?"  demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

''  He  has  been  a  little  wild,  sir,"  replied  Polly,  check- 
ing the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with 
his  arms  and  legs,  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through 
the  ambient  air,  "and  has  gone  with  wrong  compan- 
ions; but  I  hope  he  has  seen  the  misery  of  that  sir,  aud 
will  do  well  again." 

Mr.  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room  and 
the  clean  children,  and  the  simple'  Toodle  face,  com- 
bined of  father  and  mother,  that  was  reflected  and  re- 
peated everywhere  about  him:  and  seemed  to  have 
achieved  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"  Your  husband,  I  talte  it,  is  not  at  home? "  he  said. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Polly.  "He's  down  the  line  at 
present." 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  faoar 
it:  though,  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in 
his  patron,  he  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Carker's 
face,  unless  for  a  moment  at  a  time  to  steal  a  sorrowful 
glance  at  his  mother. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I'll  tell  you  howl  have 
stumbled  on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I  am,  and  what 
I  am  going  to  do  for  him." 

This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way:  saying  that  heat 
fii-st  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  torrora  on 
his  presumptuous  head  for  coming  to  the  whereabout 
of  Dombey  and  Son.  That  he  had  rfdented.  in  consid- 
eration of  his  youth,  his  professed  contrition,  and  his 
friends.  That  he  was  afraid  he  took  a  rash  step  iu 
doing  anything  for  the  boy,  and  one  that  might  expope 
him  to  the  censure  of  the  prudent;  but  that  he  did  it  of 
himself  and  for  himself,  and  risked  the  consequences 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  32? 

sinele-handed ;  and  that  his  mother's  past  connexion 
with  Mr.  Dombey's  family  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
and  that  Mr.  Dombey  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but 
that  be,  Mr.  Carker,  yvss  the  be-all,  and  the  end-all  of 
this  business.  Taking  great  credit  to  himself  for  his 
goodness,  and  receiving  no  less  from  all  the  familv 
then  present,  Mr.  Carker  signified,  indirectly  but  still 
pretty  plainly,  that  Eob's  implicit  fidelity,  attachment, 
and  devotion,  were  for  evermore  his  due,  and  the  least 
homage  he  could  receive.  And  with  this  great  truth 
Bob  himself  was  so  impressed,  that,  standing  gazing  on 
his  patron  with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeKS,  he  nod- 
ded his  shiny  head  until  it  seemed  almost  as  loose  as  it 
had  done  under  the  same  patron's  hands  that  morn- 
ing. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Heaven  knows  how  many 
sleepless  nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  first- 
born, and  had  not  sean  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could 
have  almost  kneeled  to  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  to 
a  good  spirit — in  spite  of  his  teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker 
rismg  toidepart,  she  only  thanked  him  with  her  mother's 
prayers  and  blessings:  thaiikc  so  rich  when  paid  out  of 
the  heart's  mint,  especially  for  any  service  Mr.  Carker 
had  rendered,  that  he  might  have  given  back  a  large 
amount  of  change,  and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among"  the  crowd- 
ing children  to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother, 
and  took  her  and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

"  I'll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  som  I 
will!"  said  Rob, 

•■  Oh  do,  my  dear  boy!  I  am  sure  you  will,  for  our 
Bakes  and  j-our  own!"  cried  Polly,  kissing  him.  "But 
you're  commg  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 
the  gentleman  away?" 

"I  don't  know,  mother."  Rob  hesitated  and  looked 
down.     "Father — when's  he  coming  home?" 

"  Not  till  two  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I'll  come  back,  mother  dearl "  cried  Rob.  And  pass- 
ing through  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  in 
rt«eption  of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Carker  out. 

"  What! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this.  "  You 
have  a  bad  father,  have  you?  " 

"No,  sir!"  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "There  ava't  ^ 
bt'tter  nor  a  kinder  father  going  than  mine  \ft," 


338  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  see  him  then?"  inquired  his 
patron. 

"There's  such  a  difference  between  a  father  and  a 
mother,  sir,"  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a  moment 
■■'  He  couldn't  hardly  believe  yet  that  Iwas  going  to  do 
better — though  I  know  he'd  try  to — but  a  mother— sA* 
always  believes  what's  good,  sir;  at  least  I  know  my 
mother  does,  God  bless  her! " 

Mr.  Carker  s  mouth  expanded,  but  he  said  no  more 
until  he  was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed 
the  man  who  held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  sad- 
ille  steadily  into  the  attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the 
boy,  he  said: 

"  You'll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall 
be  shown  where  that  old  gentleman  lives;  that  old  gen- 
tleman who  was  with  me  this  morning;  where  you  are 
going,  as  you  heard  me  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob.  . 

"  I  have  a  great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in 
serving  him,  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand? 
Well."  he  added,  interrupting  him,  for  ne  saw  bis  round 
face  brighten  when  he  was  told  that:  '*  I  see  you  do. 
I  want  to  know  all  about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how 
he  goes  on  from  day  to  day— for  I  am  anxious  to  be  of 
service  to  him — and  especially  who  comes  there  to  see 
him.     Do  vou  understand?  " 

Rob  nodded  his  steadfast  face,  and  said  "Yes,  sir," 
again. 

"I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  friends  ^ho  are 
attentive  to  him,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him — for  he 
lives  very  much  alone  now,  poor  fellow;  but  that  they 
are  fond  of  him.  and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone 
abroad.  There  is  a  very  young  lady  who  may  perhaps 
corae  to  see  him.  I  want  particularly  to  know  all  about 
her. 

"  I'll  take  care,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  take  care,"  returned  his  jiatron,  bending  for- 
ward to  advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's, 
and  pat  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  "his 
whip:  "  take  care  you  talk  about  affairs  of  mine  to  no- 
body but  me." 

"To  nobody  in  the  world,  sir,"  replied  Rob,  shaking 
his  head. 

"  Neither  there,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  pointing  to   the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  329 

place  they  had  jiifet  left,  "nor  any  where  else.  "I'll 
try  how  true  and  grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you! " 
Making  this,  by  the  display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action 
of  bis  bead,  as  much  a  threat  as  a  promise,  he  turned 
froEQ  Bob's  eyes,  which  were  nailed  upon  him  as  if  he 
had  won  the  boy  by  a  charm,  body  and  soul,  and  rode 
away.  But  again  becoming  conscious,  after  trotting  a 
short  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman,  girt  as  before, 
was  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the  ereat 
amusement  of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  or- 
dered him  off.  To  insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in 
his  saddle  and  watched  him  as  he  retired.  It  was  curious 
to  see  that  even  then  Bob  could  not  keep  his  eyes  wholly 
averted  from  his  patron's  face,  but,  constantly  turning 
and  turning  a^ain  to  look  after  him,  involved  himself 
in  a  tempest  ot  buffetings  and  jostUngs  from  the  other 
passengers  in  the  street:  of  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
one  paramount  idea,  he  was  perfectly  heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rode  on  at  a  foot  pace,  with 
the  easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business 
of  the  day  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  comfort- 
ably off  his  mind.  Complacent  and  affable  as  man 
could  be,  Mr.  Carker  picked  his  way  along  the  streets 
and  hummed  a  soft  tune  as  he  went.  He  seemed  to 
purr:  he  was  so  glad. 

And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  fancy,  basked 
upon  a  hearth  too.  Coiled  up  snugly  at  certain  feet,  he 
was  ready  for  a  spring,  or  for  a  tear,  or  for  a  scratch, 
or  for  a  velvet  touch,  as  the  humor  took  him  and  oc- 
casion served.  Was  there  any  bird  in  a  cage  that  came 
in  for  a  share  of  his  regards? 

"  A  very  young  lady!"  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  man- 
ager, through  his  song.  "Ah!  when  I  saw  her  last,  she 
was  a  little  child.  With  dark  eves  and  hair,  I  recolle<'t, 
and  a  good  face;  a  very  good  face!  I  dare  say  she's 
pretty." 

More  affable  and  pleasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song 
until  his  many  teetn  vibrated  to  it,  Mr,  Carker  picked 
his  way  along,  and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street 
where  Mr.  Dombey's  house  stood.  He  had  been  so  busy, 
winding  webs  round  good  faces,  and  obscuring  them 
with  meshes,  that  he  hardly  thought  of  being  at  this 
point  of  his  ride,  until,  glancing  down  the  co\A  'wt- 
spGctive  of  tall  houses,  he  reined  in  his  horse  qfi.\Sw\v 


nw  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

within  a  few  yards  of  the  door.  But  to  explain  whj 
Mr,  Carker  reined  in  his  horse  quickly,  and  what  he 
looked  at  in  no  small  surprise,  a  few  aigressive  words 
are  necessary. 

Mr.  Toots,  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thraldom 
and  coming  into  the  possession  of  a  certain  poHion  of 
his  worldly  wealth,  "  which,"  as  he  had  been  wont, 
during  his  last  half-year's  probation,  to  communicate 
to  Mr,  Feeder  every  evening  as  a  new  discovery,  "  the 
executors  couldn't  keep  him  out  of,"  had  applied  him- 
self, with  great  diligence,  to  the  science  of  Life.  Fire<l  . 
with  a  noble  emulation  to  pursue  a  brilliant  and  distin- 
guished career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a  choice  set 
of  apartments;  had  established  among  them  a  sportirg 
bower,  embellished  with  the  portraits  of  winning  norses, 
in  which  he  took  no  particle  of  interest;  and  a  divan, 
which  made  him  poorly.  In  this  delicious  abode,  Mr. 
Toots  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  those  gentle 
arts  which  refine  and  humanise  existence,  his  chief 
instructor  in  which  was  an  interesting  character  called 
the  Game  Chicken,  who  was  always  to  be  heard  of  at  the 
bar  of  the  Black  Badeer,  wore  a  shaggy  whit<>  great-coat 
in  the  warmest  weatner,  and  knocked  Mr.  Toots  about 
the  head  three  times  a  week  for  the  small  consideration 
of  ten  and  six  per  visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mr. 
Toots's  Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a  marker  who 
taught  billiards,  a  Life  Guard  who  taught  fencing,  a 
job-master  who  taught  riding,  a  Cornish  gentleman  who 
was  up  to  anything  in  the  athletic  line,  and  two  or 
three  other  friends  connected  no  lees  intimately  with 
the  fine  arts.  Under  whose  auspices  Mr,  Toots'  could 
hardly  fail  to  improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition 
he  went  to  work. 

But,  however  it  came  about,  it  came  to  pass,  even 
while  these  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon 
them,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt,he  did'nt  know  how,  unsettled 
and  uneasy.  There  were  husks  in  his  com,  that  even 
Game  Chickens  couldn't  peck  up:  gloomy  giants  in  his 
leisure,  that  even  Game  Cnickens  couldn't  knock  down. 
Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so  much  good  as  in- 
cessantly leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  No  tax- 
gatherer  in  the  British  dominions — that  wide-spread 
territory  on  which  the  sun  never  sets,  and  where  the 
ooolc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  331 

taz-gatberer  never  goes  to  bed — was  more  regular  and 
persevering  in  his  calls  than  Mr,  Toots, 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up-staire;  and  always  performed 
the  same  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  purpose,  at 
the  hall-door. 

"Oh!  Good  morning!"  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first  re- 
mark to  the  servant,  "  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be 
Mr.  Toots's  next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a  card.  "  For 
Miss  Dombey,"  would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed  in 
another. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  round  as  if  to  go  away; 
but  the  man  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he 
wouldn't. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as  if 
a  thought  had  suddenly  descended  on  him,  "  Is  the 
young  woman  at  home?" 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  was,  but  wouldn't 
quite  know.  Then  he  would  ring  a  bell  that  rang  up- 
stairs, and  would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say, 
ves  she  was  at  home,  and  was  coming  down.  Then 
^[i3B  Nipper  would  appear,  and  the  man  would  retire. 

"Oh!  How  de  do?"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him  and  say  she  was  very  well. 

"How's  Diogenes  going  on!-"'  would  be  Mr,  Toot's 
second  interrogation. 

Very  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and 
fonder  of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  hail 
this  with  a  burst  of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a  bottle 
<»f  i4ome  effervescent  beverage, 

•■  Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  air,"  Susan  would  add. 

■■  Oh,  it's  of  no  con.sequence,  thauk'ee,"  was  the  in- 
variable reply  of  Mr.  Toots;  and  when  he  had  said  so. 
b<!  always  went  away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr-  Toots  had  a  filmy  something 
in  his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could 
aspire  successfully  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of 
Florence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It  is  certain 
that  Mr.  Toots,  by  some  remote?  and  roundabout  road, 
had  got  to  that  point,  and  that  there  he  made  a  stand. 
His  heart  was  wounded;  he  was  touched;  he  was  in 
love.  He  had  made  a  desperate  attempt,  one  night,  and 
had  sat  up  all  night  for  the  purpose,  to  write  au  avTo-aWt; 
on  Florence,  which  affected  him  to  tears  m  t\ve  coxvt^^V 


332  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

iion.  But  he  never  proceeded  in  the  execution  further 
;iijin  the  words,  "  For  when  1  gaze" — the  flow  of  im- 
agination in  which  he  had  previously  written  down  the 
initial  letters  of  the  other  seven  lines  deserting  him  at 
tliat  point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure 
of  leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of 
Mr.  Tootsnad  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  sub- 
ject that  held  his  feelings  prisoner.  But  deep  consider- 
ation at  length  assured  Mr.  Toots  that  an  important  step 
to  gain  was  the  conciliation  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  pre- 
paratory to  giving  her  some  inkling  of  hie  state  of  mmii, 

A  little  light  and  playful  gallantry  towards  this  lad'- 
seemed  the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the 
-history  for  winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being 
able  quite  to  make  up  his  mind  about  it,  he  consult«)l 
the  Chicken — without  taking  that  gentleman  into  his 
confidence;  merely  informing  him  that  a  friend  in 
Yorkshire  had  written  to  him  (Mr,  Toots)  for  his  opin- 
ion on  such  a  question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his 
opinion  always  was,  "Go  in  and  win,'  and  further, 
"  When  vour  man's  before  you  and  your  work  cut  out. 
go  in  and  do  it,"  Mr.  Toots  considered  this  a  figurative 
way  of  supporting  his  own  view  of  the  case,  and  heroic- 
ally resolved  to  kiss  Miss  Nipper  next  day, 

(jjjon  tlie  next  dav,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into 
requisition  some  of  tlie  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and 
Co.  had  ever  turned  out,  went  oft  to  Mr,  Dombey *s  upon 
this  design.  But  liis  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  action,  that,  although  he  arrived 
on  the  ground  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  was 
BIX  before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Everything  happened  as  usual  down  to  the  point 
when  Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr. 
Toots  said  it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amaze- 
ment, Mr,  Toots,  instead  of  going  off  like  a  rocket,  after 
that  observation,  lingered  and  chuckled, 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  wtdk  up-stairs,  sir?"  said 
Susan. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  will  come  inl "  said  Mr,  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  up-stairs,  the  bold  Toots  made 
an  awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut, 
and.  embracing  that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  tht; 
cheek. 

D,-....,Cooi^k' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3:i:i 

"Go  along  with  you!  "  cried  SuBan,  "or  I'll  tear  your 
eyes  out." 

"Just  another!"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Go  along  with  you!  "  exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him  a 
push.  "Innocents  like  you  too!  Who'll  oegin  next! 
Go  along,  sir!" 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could 
hardly  speak  for  laughing;  hut  Diogenes,  on  the  stair- 
case, hearing  a  rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shufHing 
of  feet,  and  seeing  through  the  banisters  that  there 
was  some  contention  going  on,  and  foreign  invasion  in 
the  house,  formed  a  different  opinion,  .dashed  down  to 
the  rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  Mr, 
Toots  by  the  leg. 

Susan  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street-door,  and 
ran  down-stairs;  the  bold  Toots  tumbled  staggering  out 
into  the  street,  with  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of 
his  pantaloons,  as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  were  his  cooks, 
and  had  provided  that  dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday  en- 
tertainment; Diogenes  shaken  off,  rolled  over  and  over 
in  the  dust,  got  up  again,  whirled  round  the  gi<idy  Toots 
and  snapped  at  him:  and  all  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Carker, 
reining  up  his  horse  and  sitting  a  little  at  a  distance, 
saw,  to  his  amazement,  issue  ^om  the  stately  house  of 
Mr,  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots, 
when  Diogenes  was  called  in,  and  the  door  shut:  and 
while  that  gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a  doorway  near 
at  hand,  bound  up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  with  a 
costly  silk  handkerchief  that  had  formed  part  of  his 
expensive  outfit  for  the  adventure. 

■'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up 
with  his  most  propitiatory  smile.  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
hurt?  " 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his 
flushed  face,  "it's  of  no  consequence."  Mr.  Toots 
would  have  signified,  if  he  could,  tnat  he  liked  it  very 
much. 

"  If  the  dog's  teeth  have  entered  the  leg,  sir —  "  began 
Carker  with  a  display  of  his  own. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "it 's  all  quite  right. 
It 's  very  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dorabey,"  ob- 
served Carker. 


■iU  UOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Have  you  though?"  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

"  And  you  will  allow  me,  perhaps,  to  apologise,  io  his 
absence,'  eaid  Mr.  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  "for  such 
a  misadventure,  and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have 
happened." 

Mr.  Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  politeness,  and 
the  lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  that  he  pulls  out  his  card-case,  which  he  never 
loses  an  opportunity  of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and 
address  to  Mr.  Carker:  who  responds  to  that  courtesy 
by  giving  him  his  own,  and  with  that  they  part. 

As  Mr.  Carter  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house, 
glancing  up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the 
pensive  face  behind  the  curtain  looking  at  the  children 
opposite,  the  rough  head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering 
up  close  by  it,  and  the  dog,  regardless  of  all  soothing, 
barks  and  growls,  and  makes  at  him  from  that  height, 
as  if  he  would  spring  down  and  tear  him  limb  from 
limb. 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  mistress!  Another, 
and  anotner.  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing, 
and  your  vexed  mouth  worrying  iteelf,  for  want  of  him! 
Another,  as  he  picks  his  way  along!  You  have  a  good 
scent,  Di, — cats,  boy,  cats! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FLORENCE  SOLITARY,  AND  THE  MIDSHIPMAN   MYSTBRIOUS. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and 
day  succeeded  dav,  and  still  she  lived  alone;  and  the 
blank  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare- 
as  if  thoy  had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and 
beauty  into  stone. 

No  magic  dwelling-place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in 
the  heart  of  a  thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitarv  and 
deserted  to  the  fancy,  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in 
its  grim  reality,  as  it  stood  lowering  on  the  stn-et:  al- 
ways by  night,  when  lights  were  shining  from  neigh- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  385 

boring  windows,  a  blot  upon  its  scanty    brightness; 
always  by  day,  a  frown  upon  its  never-smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  teeping  ward  he- 
fore  th#  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are 
usually  found  on  duty  over  the  wronged  innocence  im- 

fi^iEoned:  but  besides  a  glowering  visage,  with  its  thin 
ps  parted  wickedly,  that  surveyed  all  comers  from 
above  the  archway  of  the  door,  there  was  a  monstrous 
fantasy  of  rusty  iron  curling  and  twisting  like  a  petri- 
faction of  an  arbor  over  the  threshold,  budding  in  spikes 
and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either  side, 
two  ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Who 
enter  here,  leave  light  behind!"  There  were  no  talis- 
majiic  characters  engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the  house 
was  now  so  neglected  in  appearance  that  boys  chalked 
the  railings  and  the  piivement — particularly  round  the 
comer  where  the  side  wall  was — and  drew  ghosts  on  the 
stable-door:  and  being  sometimes  driven  off  by  Mr,  Tow- 
linson,  made  protraits  of  him.  in  return,  with  his  ears 
growing  out  horizontally  from  under  his  hat.  Noise 
ceased  to  be,  within  the  shadow^  of  the  roof.  The  brass 
band  that  came  into  the  street  once  a  week,  in  the  morn- 
ing, never  brayed  a  note  in  at  those  windows;  but  all 
such  company,  down  to  a  poor  piping  organ  of  weak  in- 
tellect, with  an  imbecile  party  of  automaton  dancers, 
waltzing  in  and  out  at  folding-doors,  felt  off  from  it  with 
one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a  hopeless  place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  spell  that 
used  to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a  time, 
but  left  their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  everywhere  si- 
lently manifest  about  it.  Within  doors  the  curtains, 
drooping  heavily, lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and  hung 
like  cumbrous  palls.  Hecatombs  of  furniture,  still  piled 
and  covered  up,  shrunk  like  imprisoned  and  forgotten 
men.  and  changed  insensibly.  Mirrors  were  dim 
as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of  carpets 
faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the  mem- 
ory of  those  years'  tnfling  incidents.  Boards,  start- 
ing at  unwonted  footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Kevs 
rusted  in  the  locks  of  doors.  Damp  started  on  trie 
walLs,  and  as  the  stains  came  out,  the  pictures  seemed 
to  go  in  and  secrete  themselves.  Mildew  and  mouVd 
began  to  lurk  in  closets.     Fungus  trees  grew  m  coiner?. 


.1;J6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  the  cellars.  Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew  whence 
nor  bow;  spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were  heard  of 
every  day.  An  exploratory  black-beetle  now  and 
then  was  found  immovable  upon  the  stairs,  #r  in  an 
upper  room,  as  wondering  bow  he  got  there.  Hats  be- 
gan to  squeak  and  scuffle  in  the  night  time,  through  dark 
galleries  they  mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state  rooms,  seen  im- 
perfectly by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through  closed 
shutters,  would  have  answtjrcd  well  enough  for  an  en- 
chanted abode.  Such  as  the  tarnished  paws  of  gilded 
lions,  stealthily  put  out  from  beneath  their  wrappere: 
the  marble  lineaments  of  busts  on  pedestals,  feajTully 
revealing  themselves  through  veils;  the  clocks  that 
never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any  chance,  told 
it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which  are  not 
upon  the  dial;  the  accidental  tinklings  among  the  pen- 
dent lustre5,more  startling  than  alarm^ells;  the  softened 
sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way  among  these 
objects,  and  a  phantom  crowd  of  others  shrouded  and 
hooded,  and  made  spectral  of  shape.  But,  besides,  there 
was  the  great  staircase,  where  tne  lord  of  the  place  so 
rarely  set  his  foot,  and  by  which  bis  little  child  bad  gone 
up  to  Heaven.  There  were  other  staircases  and  pas- 
sages where  no  one  went  for  weeks  together;  there  were 
two  closed  rooms  associated  with  dead  members  of  the 
family,  and  with  whispered  recollections  of  them-  and 
to  all  the  house  but  Florence  there  was  a  gentle  ngtlre 
moving  through  the  solitude  and  gloom,  that  gave  to 
every  lifeless  thing  a  touch  of  present  human  interest 
and  wonder. 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
cold  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-fike  mind  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the 
crevices  of  the  basement  paving.  A  scaly  crumbling 
vegetation  sprouted  round  the  window-sills.  Fragments 
of  mortar  lost  their  hold  upon  the  insides  of  the  unused 
chimneys,  and  came  dropping  down.  The  two  trees 
with  the  smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high  up,  and 
the  withered  branches  domineered  above  the  leaves. 
Through  the  whole  building,  white  htid  turned  yellow, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  337 

f'etlow  nearly  black:  and  since  the  time  when  the  poor 
ady  died,  it  had  slowly  become  a  dark  gap  in  the  long 
monotonous  street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king's  fair 
daughter  in  the  story.  Her  books,  her  music,  and  her 
daily  teachers,  were  her  only  real  companions,  Susan 
Nipper  and  Diogenes  excepted:  of  whom  the  former,  in 
her  attendance  on  the  studies  of  her  young  mistress, 
began  to  grow  quite  learned  herself,  while  the  latter, 
softened  possibly  by  the  same  influences,  would  lay  his 
head  upon  the  window-ledge,  and  placidly  open  and 
shut  Us  eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through  a  summer 
morning;  sometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with 
great  signiflcance  after  some  noisy  dog  in  a  cart,  who 
was  barking  his  way  along,  and  sometimes,  with  an 
exasperated  and  unaccountable  recollection  of  his  sup- 
posed enemy  in  the  neighborhood,  rushing  to  the  door, 
w^hence,  after  a  deafening  disturbance,  he  would  come 

fogging  back  with  a  ridiculous  complacency  that  be- 
onged  to  him,  and  lay  his  jaw  upon  the  window-ledge 
again,with  the  air  of  a  dog  who  had  done  a  public  service. 
So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  within 
the  circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and 
nothing  harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father's 
rooms  now,  and  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving 
heart  humbly  to  approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse. 
She  could  look  upon  the  objects  that  had  surrounded 
him  in  his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his  chair,  and 
not  dread  the  glance  that  she  so  well  remembered.  She 
could  render  him  such  little  tokens  of  her  duty  and  ser- 
vice as  putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with  her 
own  hands,  binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  chang- 
ing them  as  one  by  one  they  withered  and  he  did  not 
come  back,  prepanng  something  for  him  every  day, 
and  leaving  some  timid  mark  of  her  presence  near  his 
usual  seat.  To-day,  it  was  a  little  painted  stand  for  his 
watch;  to-morrow  she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it.  and 
would  substitute  some  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  so 
likely  to  attract  his  eye.  Waking  io  the  night,  perhaps, 
she  would  tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home 
and  angrily  rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with 
slippered  feet  and  quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it 
away.  At  another  time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face 
upon  his  desk,  and  leave  a  kiss  there,  anti  aieSbT. 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


138  DOMBEY  AND  80K. 

Stiil  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found 
it  out  when  she  was  not  there — and  they  all  held  Mr. 
Dombey's  rooms  in  awe — it  was  as  deep  a  secret  in  her 
breast  as  what  h'skd  ^one  before  it.  Florence  stole  into 
those  rooms  at  twilight,  early  in  the  morning,  and  at 
times  when  meals  were  served  down-stairs.  And  al- 
though they  were  in  every  nook  the  better  and  the 
brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed  out  as 
quietlv  as  any  sunbeam,  excepting  that  she  left  her 
hght  behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and,  down 
the  echoing  house,  and  sat  with  her  in  the  dismantled 
rooms.  As  if  her  life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there 
arose  out  of  her  solitude  ministering  thoughts,  that 
made  it  fanciful  and  unreal.  She  imaginea  bo  oft«n 
what  her  life  would  have  been  if  her  father  could  have 
loved  her  and  she  had  been  a  favorite  child  that  some- 
times, for  the  moment,  she  almost  "believed  it  w^as  so, 
and,  borne  on  by  the  current  of  that  pensive  fiction, 
seemed  to  remember  how  they  had  watched  her  brother 
in  his  grave  together;  how  tney  had  freely  shared  his 
heart  between  them;  how  they  were  united  in  the  dear 
remembrance  of  him:  how  they  often  spoke  about  him 
yet;  and  her  kind  father,  looking  at  her  gently,  told  her 
of  their  common  hope  and  trust  m  Qod.  At  other  times 
she  pictured  to  herself  her  mother  yet  alive.  And  oh 
the  happiness  of  falling  on  her  neck,  and  clinging  to 
her  with  the  love  and  confidence  of  all  her  soul!  And 
oh  the  de.solation  of  the  solitary  house  again,  with  even- 
ing coming  on.  and  no  one  therel 

But  there  was  one  thought,  scarcely  shaped  out  to 
herself,  yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her.  tnat  upheld 
Florence  when  she  strove,  and  filled  her  true  young 
heart,  sa  sorely  tried,  with  constancy  of  purpose.  Into 
her  mind,  as  into  all  others  contending  with  the  great 
affliction  of  our  mortal  nature,  there  had  stolen  solemn 
wonderings  and  hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond 
the  present  life,  and  murmuring.like  faint  music,  of  rec- 
ognition in  the  far  off  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
mother:  of  some  present  consciousness  in  both  of  her: 
some  love  and  commiseration  for  her:  and  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  as  she  went  her  way  upon  the  earth.  It 
was  a  soothing  consolation  to  Florence  to  give  shelter 
to  these  thoughts,   until   one  day — it  was  soon   after 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  331) 

she  had  last  seen  her  father  in  his  own  room,  late  at 
night — the  fancy  came  upon  her,  that,  in  weeping  for 
his  alienated  heart,  she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
against  him.  Wild,  weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have 
been  to  think  bo,  and  to  tremble  at  the  half-formed 
thought,  it  was  the  impulse  of  her  lovipg  nature;  and 
from  that  hour  Florence  strove  against  the  cruel  wound 
in  her  hreast,  and  tried  to  think  of  him,  whose  hand  had 
made  it,  only  with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from  that 
time — how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young. 
and  had  no  mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some 
fault  or  misfortune,  how  to  express  to  him  that  she 
loved  him.  She  would  be  patient,  and  would  try  to  gain 
that  art  in  time,  and  win  him  to  a  better  knowledge  of 
(lis  only  child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning 
sun  shone  down  upon  the  faded  house,  and  found  the 
resolution  bright  and  fresh  within  the  bosom  of  its  soli- 
tary mistress.  Through  all  the  duties  of  the  day,  it  an- 
imated her;  for  Florence  hoped  that  the  more  she  knew. 
»nd  the  more  accomplished  she  became,  the  more  glad 
he  woiild  be  when  he  came  to  know  and  like  her.  Some- 
times she  wondered,  with  a  swelling  heart  and  rising 
tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough  in  anything  to 
surprise  him  when  they  should  become  companions. 
Sometimes  she  tried  to  think  if  there  were  any  kind  of 
knowledge  that  would  bespeak  his  interest  more  readily 
than  another.  Always:  at  her  books,  her  music,  and 
her  work:  in  her  morning  walks,  and  in  her  nightly 
prayers:  she  had  her  engrossing  aim  in  view.  Strange 
study  for  a  child,  to  learn  the  road  to  a  hard  parent's 
heartl 

There  were  many  careless  loungers  through  the  street. 
as  the  sunmier  evening  deepened  into  night,  who  glanced 
across  the  road  at  the  sombre  house,  and  saw  the  youth- 
ful figure  at  the  window,  such  a  cuntraet  to  it,  looking 
upward  at  the  stars  as  they  began  to  shine,  who  would 
have  slept  the  worse  if  they  had  known  on  what  design 
she  mused  so  steadfastly.  The  reputation  of  the  mansion 
as  a  haunted  house,  would  not  have  been  the  gayer  with 
some  humble  dwellers  elsewhere,  who  were  struck  by 
its  external  gloom  in  passing  and  repassing  on  thciv 
daily  avocations,  and  so  named  it,  if  they  cou\4  \vavft 


340  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

read  its  story  in  the  darkeDing  face.  But  Florence  held 
her  sacred  purpose,  unsuspected  and  unaided:  and 
studied  only  now  to  bring  her  father  to  the  understand- 
ing that  she  loved  him,  and  made  no  appeal  against  him 
in  any  wandering  thought. 

Thus  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
monotonous  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  intent  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

Susan  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a  note  she  had  been 
writing:  and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowl- 
edge of  its  contents. 

'■Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
'•  and  I  do  say,  that  even  a  visit  to  them  old  Skettleses 
will  be  a  God-send." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Bamet  and  Lady  Skettles,  Su- 
san," returned  Florence,  with  a  mild  correction  of  that 
young  lady's  familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  question. 
"  to  repeat  their  invitation  so  kindly." 

Miss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  moat  thorough- 

foing  partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  earned 
er  partisanship  into  all  matters  great  or  small,  and 
perpetually  waged  war  with  it  against  society,  screwed 
up  her  lips  and  shook  her  head  as  a  protest  against  any 
recognition  of  disinterestedness  in  the  Skettleses,  and  a 

Elea  in  bar  that  they  would  have  valuable  consideration 
ir  their  kindness  in  the  company  of  Florence. 

"They  know  what  they're  about,  if  ever  people  did," 
murmured  Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  "ohi 
trust  them  Skettle^s  for  that  I " 

•'  I  am  not  very  anxious  to  go  to  Fulham.  Susan,  I 
confess."  said  Florence  thoughtfully;  "but  it  will  be 
right  to  go.     I  think  it  will  be  better." 

"  Much  better,"  interposed  Susan,  with  another  em- 
phatic shake  of  her  head. 

'■  And  so,"  said  Florence,  "  though  I  would  prefer  to 
have  gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in 
this  vacation  time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young 
people  staying  in  the  house,  I  have  thankfully  said 
yes." 

"  For  which  I  say.  Miss  Floy,  Oh,  be  joyful! "  returned 
Susan.     "Ahl  h— n!" 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  341 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Mias  Nipper  fre- 
c^ueotlj  wound  up  a  senteuce,  at  ahout  that  epoch  of 
time,  was  suppoaed  below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a 
general  reference  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive 
of  a  yearning  in  Miss  Nipper  to  favor  that  gentleman 
with  a  piece  of  her  mind.  But  she  never  explained  it; 
and  it  had,  in  consequence,  the  charm  of  mystery,  in 
addition  to  the  advantage  of  the  sharpest  expression. 

'*  How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter, 
Susan! "  observed  Florence,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Long  indeed.  Miss  Floy! "  replied  her  maid.  "  And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters — 
but  what  signifies  what  he  says!  "exclaimed  Susan,  red- 
dening and  breaking  oflf.     "Much  fee  knows  about  it!" 

Florence  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  and  a  flush  over- 
spreEid  her  face.  • 

"  If  I  hadn't,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  evidently  strug- 

f:ling  with  some  latent  anxiety  ana  alarm,  and  looking 
ull  at  her  young  mistress,  while  endeavoring  to  work 
herself  into  a  state  of- resentment  with  the  unoffending 
Mr.  Perch's  image,  "  if  I  hadn't  more  manliness  than 
that  insipidest  of  his- sex,  I'd  never  take  pride  in  my 
hair  again,  but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and  wear 
coarse  caps,  without  a  bit  of  order,  until  death  released 
me  from  my  insignificance.  I  may  not  be  a  Amazon, 
Miss  Floy,  and  wouldn't  so  demean  myself  by  such  dis- 
figurement, but  anyways  I'm  not  a  giver  up,  I  hope." 

"Give  up!  What?"  cried  Florence,  with  a  face  of 
terror. 

"  Why,  nothing,  miss,"  said  Susan.  "  Good  gracious, 
nothing!  It's  on^  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a  man  Perch, 
that  any  one  might  almost  make  away  witli,  with  a 
touch,  and  really  it  would  be  a  blessed  event  for  all  par- 
ties if  some  one  would  take  pity  on  him,  and  would 
have  the  goodness!" 

"Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan?"  inquired  Flor- 
ence, verj^  p£ue. 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Susan,  "  I  should  like  to  see  him 
make  so  bold  as  to  do  it  to  my  face!  No,  miss,  but  he 
goes  on  about  some  bothering  ginter  that  Mr.  Walter 
was  to  send  to  Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head, 
and  says  he  hopes  it  may  be  coming;  any  how,  he  says, 
it  can't  come  now  in  time  for  the  intended  occasion,  ou.^ 
may  do  for  next,  which  really,"  said  Miss  "Sip^T,  -wVCn, 


-TU  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Rob,  who  smoothed  hie  first  rebellious  glance  at 
Miss  Nipper  when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his 
knuckles  to  his  hair,  in  honor  of  the  latter,  and  said  to 
the  former,  that  Mr.  Giils  was  out. 

"  Fetch  him  home,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority, 
"and  say  that  my  young  lady's  here," 

"  I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Rob. 

"  Is  that  your  penitenceP"  cried  Susan,  with  stinging 
sharpness. 

■'Why  how  can  I  go  and  fetch  him  when  I  dont 
know  where  to  go? "  miimpered  the  baited  Bob.  "  How 
can  you  be  so  unr^^onable? " 

"Did  Mr,  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home?"  asked 
Florence. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of 
his  knuckles  to  his  hair.  "  He  said  he  should  be  home 
early  in  the  afternoon;  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  from 
now,  miss." 

"Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew?"  inquireii 
Susan. 

"Yes,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  preferring^  to  address 
himself  to  Florence  and  slighting  Nipper;  "I  should  say 
he  was,  very  much  so.  He  ain  t  in-doors,  miss,  not  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  together.  He  can't  settle  in  one 
place  five  minutes.  He  goes  about  like  a — just  like  a 
stray,"  said  Rob,  stooping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
pigeons  through  the  window,  and  checking  himself, 
with  his  fingers  half-way  to  his  mouth,  on  the  verge  of 
another  whistle. 

"Do  you  know  a  friend  of  Mr.  Gills,  called  Captain 
Cuttle?  '  inquired  Florence,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"Him  with  a  hook,  miss?"  rejoined  Rob,  with  an  il- 
lustrative twist  of  his  left  hand.  "  Yes,  miss.  He  was 
here  the  day  before  yesterday," 

"  Has  he  not  been  here  since?  "  asked  Susan. 

"No,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  his  reply 
to  Florence. 

"  Perhaps  Walter's  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,"  ob- 
served Florence,  turning  to  her. 

""To  Captain  Cuttle's,  miss?"  interposed  Rob,  "no, 
he's  not  gone  there,  miss.  Because  he  left  particular 
word  that  if  Captain  Cuttle  called,  I  should  tell  him 
how  surprised  he  was  not  to  have  seen  him  yesterday, 
and  sliould  make  him  utap  till  he  ramo  back." 


DOMBET  iXD  SOX.  3« 

"  Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives?  "  asked 

Florence, ' 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative  and.  taming  to  a  greasv 
parchment  book  on  the  shop  desk,  read  the  address 
aloud. 

Florence  again  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel 
with  her  in  a  low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eved, 
mindful  of  his  patron's  secret  charee.  looked  on  and 
listened.  Florence  proposed  that  thev  should  go  to 
Captain  Cuttle's  house;  hear  from  his  own  lips  what 
he  thought  of  the  absence  of  any  tidings  of  the  Son 
and  Heir;  and  bring  him,  if  they  could,  to  comfort 
Uncle  Sol,  Susan  at  first  objected  slightly,  on  the  score 
of  distance;  but  a  hackney-coach  being  mentioned  by 
her  mistress,  withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave  iu  her 
assent.  There  were  some  minutes  of  discussion  between 
them  before  they  came  to  this  conclusion,  during  which 
the  staring  Rob  paid  close  attention  to  both  speakers, 
and  inclined  his  ear  to  each  by  turns,  as  if  he  were  ap- 
pointed arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  despatched  for  a  coach,  the  visitors 
keeping  shop  meanwhile;  and  when  he  brought  it.  they 
got  into  it,  leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  w^ould 
be  sure  to  call  again,  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having 
stared  after  the  coach  until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the 
pigeons  had  now  become,  sat  down  behind  the  desk 
with  a  most  assiduous  demeanor;  and  in  order  that  be 
might  forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired,  made 
notes  of  it  on  various  small  scraps  of  paper,  with  a  vast 
expenditure  of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of  these 
documents  betraying  anything,  if  accidentally  lost;  for 
long  before  a  word  was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a 
mystery  to  Rob,  as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in 
its  production. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labors,  the  hackney- 
coach,  after  encountering  unheard-of  difficulties  from 
swivel-bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  caravans 
of  casks,  settlements  of  Bcarlet-beans  and  little  wash- 
houses,  and  many  such  obstacles  abounding  in  that 
country^  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Brig  Place.  Alighting 
here,  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  walked  down  the 
street,  and  sought  out  the  abode  of  Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  Dv  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stingers  great  cleaning  days.     On  these  occoaions.'Nltfe. 


346  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

MacStinger  was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a 
quarter  before  three  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  suc- 
cumbed before  twelve  o'clock  next  night.  The  chief 
object  of  this  iuatitution  appeared  to  be,  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  should  move  all  tne  furniture  into  the  back 
garden  at  early  dawn,  walk  about  the  house  in  pattens 
all  day,  and  move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark. 
These  ceremonies  greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the  young 
MacStingers,  who  were  not  only  unable  at  such  times 
to  find  any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but 
generally  came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  pecking  from  the 
maternal  bird  during  the  progress  of  tne  solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  pre- 
sented themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  door,  that  wor- 
thy but  redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  conveviDg 
Alexander  MacStingtir,  aged  two  years  and  three 
months,  along  the  passage  for  forcible  deposition  in  a 
sitting  posture  on  the  street  pavement,  Alexander  being 
black  in  the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after  punish- 
ment, and  a  cool  paving-stone  being  usually  found  to 
act  as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a 
mother,  were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander 
which  she  observed  on  Florence's  face.  Therefore, 
Mrs.  MacStinger  asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our 
nature,  in  preference  to  weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity, 
sliook  and  buffeted  Alexander  both  before  and  during 
the  application  of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further 
notice  of  the  strangers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence,  when  the 
<'hild  had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it 
■'  Is  this  Captain  Cuttle's  house? ' 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Not  Number  Nine?"  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

"  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine?"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  in- 
quire what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she 
knew  whom  she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,  looked  at  her-  all  over, 
"  What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish 
to  know?"  said  Mrs,  MacStinger, 

"  Should  you?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be 
satisfied,"  returned  Miss  Nipper. 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  34: 

"  Hush,  Susan!  If  you  pleaee! "  said  Florence.  "  Per- 
haps you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  when- 
Captain  Cuttle  lives,  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here." 

"  Who  says  he  don't  live  here? "  retorted  the  implaca- 
ble MacStinger.  "I  said  itwasn'tCap'en Cuttle's nouse 
— and  it  an't  his  houae — and  forbid  it,  that  it  ever  should 
l>e  his  house — for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know  how  to  keep 
a  house — and  don't  deserve  to  have  a  house — it's  my 
house— and  when  I  let  the  upper  floor  to  Cap'en  Cuttle, 
oh  I  do  a  thankieBS  thing,  and  cast  pearls  before  swine!" 

Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  win- 
dows in  offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each 
clause  sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing  an 
infinity  of  oarrels.  After  the  last  shot,  the  captain's 
voice  was  heard  to  say,  in  feeble  remonstrance  from  his 
own  room,  "Steady  below!" 

"  Since  you  want  Cap'en  Cuttle,  there  he  is!"  said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  hand. 
t)n  Florence  making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more 
parley,  and  on  Susan  following.  Mrs.  MacStinger  re- 
commenced her  pedestrian  exercise  in  pattens,  and 
Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on  the  paving-stone),  who 
had  stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the  conversation, 
l>egan  to  wail  again,  entertaining  liimself  during  that  dis- 
mal performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with  a 
general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the 
hac  k  ney  -coach . 

The  captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under 
his  chair,  on  a  very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about 
midway  in  an  ocean  of  soap  and  water.  The  captain's 
windows  had  been  cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned, 
the  stove  had  been  cleaned,  and  everything,  the  stove 
excepted,  was  wet.  and  shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand : 
the  smell  of  which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the  air.  In 
the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the  captain,  cast  away 
upon  his  island,  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters 
with  a  rueful  countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some 
friendly  bark  to  come  that  way,  and  take  him  off. 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  to- 
wards the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maifj,  no 
words  can  describe  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
eloquence  having  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  im.- 
l>eriectly  distinguishable,  he  had  looked  iot  no  tares 


348  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

visitor  than  the  jwtboy  or  the  milkman;  wherefore, 
when  Florence  appeared  and,  coming  to  the  confines  of 
the  island,  put  ner  hand  in  Mb,  the  captain  stood  up, 
aghast,  as  it  he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be 
some  young  member  of  the  Flying  Dutchman's  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-poBsession,  however,  the 
captain's  first  care  waa  to  place  her  on  dry  land,  which 
he  happily  accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm. 
Issuing  forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took 
Miss  Nipper  round  the  waist,  and  bore  ner  to  the  island 
also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and  ad- 
miration, raised  the  hand  of  Florence  to  his  lips,  and 
standing  off  a  little  (for  the  island  was  not  large  enouch 
for  three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap  and  water  lie 
a  new  description  of  Triton. 

"  You  are  amazed  to  sec  us,  I  amBure,"saidFlorence. 
with  a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in 
reply,  and  growled,  as  if  a  choice  and  delicate  com- 

Ehment  were  included  in  the  words,  "  Stand  by!  Stand 
y!" 

"But  I  couldn't  rest,"  said  Florence,  "without  (Min- 
ing to  ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Waiter — who 
is  my  brother,  now — and  whether  there  is  anything  to 
fear,  and  whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor 
uncle  every  day  until  we  have  some  intelligence  of 
hini*"'  ' 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary 
gesture,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the 
hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited, 

"  Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety?  "  inquired 
Florence,  from  whose  face  the  captain  {so  enraptured 
he  was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes:  while  she,  in 
her  turn,  looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  he  assured  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  replj. 

"  No,  Heart's-delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am 
not  afeared,  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as  '11  go  through  a  deal  o* 
hard  weather.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as  '11  bring  as  much  suc- 
cess to  that  'ere  brig  as  a  lad  is  capable  on,  Wal'r," 
said  the  captain,  his  eyes  glistening  w^ith  the  praise  of 
his  young  friend,  and  bis  hook  raised  to  announce  a 
beautiful  quotation,  "  is  what  you  may  call  a  out'ard 
and  visible  sign  of  a  in'ard  and  spirited  grasp,  and  when 
found  make  a  note  of." 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  349 

Florence  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though 
the  captain  evidently  thought  it  full  of  meaning,  and 
highly  satisfactory,  mildly  looked  to  him  for  something 
more. 

"I  am  not  afeard,  my  Heart's-delight,"  resumed  the 
captain.  "  There's  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather 
in  them  latitudef,  there's  no  denyin,  and  they  have 
drove  and  drove  and  been  beat  oflf,  may  be  t'  other  side 
the  world.  But  the  ship%  a  good  ship,  and  the  lad's  a 
good  lad;  and  it  ain't  easy,  thank  the  Lord,"  the  captain 
made  a  little  bow,  "to  break  up  hearts  of  oak,  whether 
they're  in  brigs  or  buzzums.  Here  we  have  'em  both 
ways,  which  is  bringing  it  up  with  a  round  turn,  and  so 
I  ain't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet." 

"  As  yet? "  repeated  Florence. 

"Not  a  bit."  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron 
hand;  "and  afore  I  begin  to  be,  my  HeartVdelight, 
Wal'r  will  have  wrote  Borne  from  the  island,  or  from 
some  port  or  another,  and  made  all  taut  and  ship-shape. 
And  with  regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,"  here  the  captain  be- 
came solemn,  "who  I'll  stand  by,  and  not  desert  until 
death  doe  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 
do  blow,  do  blow — overhaul  the  Catechism,"  said  the 
captain  parenthetically,  "  and  there  you'll  find  them  ex- 
pressions— if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the  opin- 
ion of  a  seafaring  man  as  has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any 
undertaking  that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and  as  was  all 
but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship,  and  of  which  the  name 
is  Bunsby,  that  'ere  man  shall  give  him  such  an  opin- 
ion in  his  own  parlor  as  '11  stun  him,  Ahl "  said  Captain 
Cuttle,  Tauntingly,  "  as  much  as  if  he'd  gone  and 
knocked  his  head  a<^ain  a  door! " 

"  Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us 
hear  what  he  says,"  cned  Florence.  "Will  you  go  with 
us  now?    We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on 
which  the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discom- 
fited. But  at  this  instant  a  most  remarkable  phenome- 
non occurred.  The  door  opening,  without  any  note  of 
E reparation,  and  apparently  of  itself,  the  hard  glazed 
at  in  question  skimmed  into  the  room  like  a  bird,  and 
alighted  heavily  at  the  captain's  feet.  The  door  then 
shut  as  violently  as  it  bad  opened,  and  nothing  ensued, 
in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 


.150  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat,  and  having  tunie<l 
it  over  with  a  look  of  interest  and  welcome,  oegan  to 
polish  it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so,  the  captain 
eyed  his  visitors  intently,  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yes- 
terday, and  this  morning,  but  she — she  took  it  away  am! 
kept  it.    That's  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject."' 

"  Who  did,  for  goodness  sake?  "  asked  Susan  Nipper, 

"  The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  CAf- 
tain,  in  a  gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy. 
"  We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbmg  of  these  here 
planks,  and  she — in  short,"  said  the  captain,  eyeing  the 
door,  and  relieving  himself  with  a  long  breath,  "she 
stopped  my  liberty."' 

"  Ob!  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with!"  said  Susan. 
reddening  with  the  energy  of  the  wish.     "  I'd  stop  her!" 

"Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?"  rejoined  the 
captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the 
desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  ad- 
miration. "I  don't  know.  Its  difficult  navigation. 
She's  very  hard  to  carry  on  with,  my  dear.  You  never 
can  tell  how  she"ll  head,  you  see.  She's  full  one  minute, 
and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a  tartar," 
said  the  captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out 
upon  his  forehead — .  There  was  nothing  but  a  whistle 
emphatic  enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so 
the  captain  whistled  tremulously.  After  which  he 
again  shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration 
of  Miss  Nipper's  devoted  bravery,  timidly  repeated., 
•■  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?" 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  smile,  but  that  was 
so  very  full  of  defiance  that  there  is  no  knoTving  how 
long  CJaptain  Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in  its 
contemplation  if  Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not  ^ain 
proposed  their  immediately  resorting  to  the  oracular 
Buiisby.  Thus  reminded  of  his  duty,  Captain  Cuttle 
put  on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  another  knobby 
stick,  with  which  he  had  supplied  the  place  of  that  one 
given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  pre- 
pared to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  al- 
ready changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the 
captain  had  remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a  new  di- 
rection.    For  when  they  got  down-stairs,  they  found 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  361 

that  exemplary  woman  beating  the  mata  on  the  duor- 
Bteps,  with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  pavine-Btone, 
dimly  looming  through  a  fog  of  dust;  and  so  absorbed 
■was  Mrs.  MacStinger  in  herhousehold  occupations  that, 
when  Captain  Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat 
the  harder,  and  neither  by  word  nor  gesture  showed  anv 
consciousness  of  their  vicinity.  The  captain  was  so  well 
pleased  with  this  easy  e-scape — although  the  effect  of  the 
door-mats  on  him  was  like  a  copious  administration  of 
BDufl,  and  made  him  sneeze  until  the  tears  ran  down  his 
face — that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune;  but 
more  than  ouce,  between  the  door  and  the  hackney- 
coach,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  an  obvious  appre- 
hension of  Mrs.  MacStinger's  giving  chase  yet. 

However,  they  got  to  the  comer  of  Brig  Place  with- 
out any  molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship;  and  the 
captain  mounting  the  coach  box — for  )us  gallantry 
would  not  allow  him  to  ride  inside  with  the  ladies, 
though  besought  to  do  so— piloted  the  driver  on  his 
course  for  Captain  Bunsby's  vessel,  which  was  called 
the  Cautious  Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  command- 
er's ship  was  jammed  in  among  some  five  hundred 
companions,  Vhose  tangled  riggnig  looked  like  mon- 
strous cobwebs  half  swejpt  down.  Captain  Cuttle  ap- 
peared at  the  coach  window,  and  invited  Florence  and 
Miss  Nipper  to  accompany  him  on  board;  observing 
that  Bunsby  was  to  the  last  degree  soft-hearted  in  re- 
spect of  ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend 
to  bring  his  expansive  intellect  into  a  state  of  harmony 
as  their  presentation  to  the  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented;  and  the  captain,  taking 
her  little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  leu  her,  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  patronage,  paternity,  pride,  and 
ceremony,  that  was  pleasant  to  see,  over  several 
very  dirty  decks,  until,  coming  to  the  Clara,  they  found 
that  cautious  craft  (which  lay  outside  of  the  tier)  with 
her  gangway  removed,  and  half  a  dozen  feet  of  river 
interposed  between  herself  and  her  nearest  neighbor. 
It  appeared,  from  Captain  Cuttle's  explanation,  that 
the  great  Bunsby,  like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by 
his  landlady,  and  that  wheu  her  usage  of  him  for  the 
time  being  was  so  hard  that  be  could  l>ear  it  no  longer, 
he  set  this  gulf  between  them  as  a  last  reaouTve, 


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ai>a  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Clara  a-hoj!"  cried  the  captain,  putting  a  hand  to 
each  side  of  his  mouth, 

"  A-hoy!"  cried  a  boy,  like  the  captain's  echo,  tumb- 
ling up  from  below, 

"  Bunsby  aboard?  "  cried  the  captain,  hailing  the  boj 
In  a  stentorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half-a-mile  off  in- 
stead of  two  yards, 

•'  Aye,  aye!     cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  boy  then  shoved  out  a  plank  to  Captain  Cuttle. 
who  adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across:  re- 
turning presently  for  Miss  Nipper.  So  they  stood  upon 
the  desk  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rig- 
ging divers  fluttering  articles  of  dress  were  curing,  in 
company  with  a  few  tongues  and  some  mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above 
the  bulk-head  of  the  cabin,  another  bulk-head — human 
and  very  large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahog- 
any face,  and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of 
some  lighthouses.  This  head  was  decorated  with  snaggy 
hair,  like  oakum,  which  had  no  governing  inclination 
towards  the  north,  east,  west,  or  south,  but  inclined  to 
all  four  quarters  of  the  compass,  and  to  every  point 
upon  it.  The  head  was  followed  by  a  perfect  desert  of 
chin,  and  by  a  shirt  collar  and  neckerchief,  and  bv  a 
dreadnought  pilot-coat,  by  a  pair  of  dreadnought  pilot- 
trousers,  whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and 
high  that  it  became  a  succedaneum  for  a  waistcoat; 
being  ornamented  near  the  wearer's  breast-bone  with 
some  massive  wooden  buttons,  like  backgammon  men. 
As  the  lower  portions  of  these  pantaloons  became  re- 
vealed, Bunsby  stood  confessed;  his  hands  in  their 
pockets,  which  were  of  vast  size;  and  his  gaze  directed, 
not  to  Captain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but  the  mast-head. 

The  profound  appearance  (if  this  philosopher,  who 
was  bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face 
an  expression  of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  incon- 
sistent with  his  character,  in  which  that  qualitv  was 
proudly  conspicuous,  almost  daunted  Captain  Cuttle, 
though  on  familiar  terms  with  him.  Whispering  to 
Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  expresstni 
surprise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it  meant, 
the  captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast-head,  and 
afterwards  swept  the  horizon;  and  when  the  revolving 
eye  seemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said: 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  363 

*'  Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it?  " 

A  deep,  ^juff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have 
no  connexion  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the 
least  effect  upon  his  face,  replied,  "  Aye,  aye,  shipmet, 
how  goes  it!  At  the  same  time  Bunsby's  right  hand 
and  arm,  emerging  from  a  pocket,  shook'  the  captain's, 
and  went  back  again. 

"  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  striking  home  at  once, 
"  here  you  are;  a  man  of  mind,  and  a  man  as  can  give 
an  opinion.  Here's  a  young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that 
opinion,  in  regard  to  my  friend  Wal'r;  likewise  my 
t  other  friend,  Sol  Gills,  which  is  a  character  for  you  to 
come  within  hail  of,  being  a  man  of  science,  which  is 
the  mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.  Bunsby, 
Tvili  you  w^ear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along  with  us?" 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression 
of  his  visage  to  be  always  on  the  lookout  for  something 
in  the  extremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  know!- 
edge  of  anything  within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  what- 
ever. 

"  Here  is  a  man,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  him- 
self to  his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  the  commander 
with  his  outstretched  hook,  "that  has  fell  down  more 
than  any  man  alive;  that  has  had  more  accidents  hap- 

Een  to  his  own  self  than  the  Seaman's  Hospital  to  all 
ands;  that  toot  as  many  spars  and  bars  and  bolts 
about  the  outside  of  his  head,  when  he  was  young,  as 
you'd  want  a  order  for  on  Chatham-yard  tp  build  a 
pleasure-yacht  with;  and  yet  that  got  his  opinious  in 
that  way^  it's  my  belief,  for  there  ain't  nothing  like  'em 
aJoat  or  ashore. 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a  very  slight 
vibration  in  his  elbows,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in 
this  encomium;  but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as 
his  gaze  was,  it  could  hardly  have  enlightened  his  be- 
holi^rs  less  in  reference  to  anything  that  was  passing 
in  his  thoughts, 

"  Shipmet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  stoop- 
ing down  t«  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar, 
"  what'U  the  ladies  drink?" 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such 
an  inquirv  in  connexion  with  Florence,  drew  the  sago 
aside  and,  seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear.  accompanied 
him  below ;  where,  that  he  might  not  take  ofteucfe,  SXv% 


354  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

captain  drank  a  dram  himself,  which,  Florence  and 
Susan,  glancing  down  the  open  slcylight,  saw  the  sage, 
with  difficulty  finding  room  for  himself  between  nig 
berth  and  a  very  little  brass  fireplace,  serve  out  for 
self  and  friend.  The;  soon  reappeared  on  deck,  sud 
Captain  Cuttle,  triumphing  in  the  bucccbb  of  his  enter- 

6 rise,  conducted  Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while 
unsby  followed,  escorting  Miss  Nipper,  whom  he 
hugged  upon  the  wa;  (much  to  that  young  lady's  in- 
dignation) with  his  pilot-coated  arm  like  a  blue  bear. 

The  captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloried  so  much 
in  having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into 
a  hackney-coach,  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  often 
peeping  in  at  Florence  through  the  little  seat  behind 
the  driver,  and  testifying  his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also 
in  taps  upon  his  forehead,  to  hint  to  her  that  the  brain 
of  Bunsby  was  hard  at  it.  In  the  meantime,  Buusby, 
still  hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for  his  friend,  the  captain, 
had  not  exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uni- 
formly preserved  his  gravity  of  deportment,  and  showed 
no  other  consciousness  of  her  or  anything. 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the 
door,  and  ushered  them  immediately  in  the  little  back- 
parlor:  strangely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter,  On 
the  table,  and  about  the  room,  were  the  charts  and 
maps  on  which  the  heavy-hearted  Instrumentr-maker 
had  again  and  again  tracked  the  missing  vessel  across 
the  sea,  and  on  which,  with  a  pair  of  compasses  that  he 
still  had  in  his  hand,  he  had  been  measuring,  a  minute 
before,  how  far  she  must  have  driven,  to  have  driven 
here  or  there:  and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a  long 
time  must  elapse  before  hope  was  exhausted. 

"  Whether  she  can  have  run,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  looking 
wistfully  over  the  chart;  "  but  no,  that's  almost  impos- 
sible. Or  whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress 
of  weather,— but  that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or 
whether  there  is  any  hope  she  so  far  changed  her 
course  as— but  even  I  can  hardlv  hope  that!"  With 
such  broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol  roamed 
over  the  great  sheet  before  him,  and  could  not  find  a 
speck  of  hopeful  probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set 
one  small  point  of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately — it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  help  seeing — that  there  was  a  singular  indescrib- 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  355 

able  change  in  the  old  man  and  that,  ^hile  his  manner 
"waa  far  more  restless  and  unsettled  than  uBual,  there 
was  yet  a  curious,  contradictory  decision  in  it,  that  per- 
plexed her  very  much.  She  fancied  once  that  he  spoke 
wildly,  and  at  random;  for  on  her  saying  she  regretted 
not  to  have  seen  him  when  she  bad  oeen  there  before 
that  morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been  to  see 
her,  and  directly  afterwards  seemed  to  wish  to  recall 
that  answer. 

"You  have  been  to  see  me?"  said  Florence.  "To- 
day? " 

"Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,"  returned  Uncle  Sol, 
Iboking  at  her  and  away  from  her  in  a  confused  man- 
ner. "  I  wished  to  see  you  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to 
hear  vou  with  my  own  ears,  once  more  before — "  There 
here  ne  stopped. 

"Before  when?  Before  what?"  said , Florence,  put- 
tiugher  hand  upon  bis  arm. 

'"Did  I  say  'Before?'"  replied  old  Sol.  "If  I  did,  I 
must  have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my 
dear  boy." 

"You  are  not  well,"  said  Florence,  tenderly.  "You 
have  been  so  very  anxious.  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
well." 

"  I  am  as  well,"  returned  the  old  man,  shutting  up 
his  right  hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her:  "as 
well  and  firm  as  anj'  man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope 
to  be.  See!  It's  steady.  Is  its  master  not  as  capable 
of  resolution  and  fortitude  as  many  a  younger  man?  I 
think  so.     We  shall  see." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressed 
Florence  so  much  that  she  would  have  confided  her  un- 
easiness to  Captain  Cuttle,  at  that  moment,  if  the  cap- 
tain had  not  seized  that  moment  for  expounding  the 
state  of  circumstances  on  which  the  opinion  of  the  sa- 
gacious Bunsby  was  requested,  and  entreating  that  pro- 
found authority  to  deliver  the'  same. 

Bunsby,  whose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  some- 
where about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and 
Gravesend,  two  or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right 
arm,  as  seeking  to  wind  it  for  inspiration  round  the 
fair  form  of  Miss  Nipper;  but  that  young  femaleViS.'^m^ 
withdrawn  herself,  in  displeasure,  to  tne  oppoe.S.^.e  Bvie 


356  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  the  table,  the  soft  heart  of  the  commander  of  the 
Cautious  Clara  met  with  no  response  to  its  impulses. 
After  sundry  failures  in  this  wise,  the  commancier,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  nobody,  thus  spake;  or  rather  tlie 
voice  within  him  said  of  its  own  accord,  and  quite  in- 
dependent of  himself,  as  if  ho  were  possessed  by  a 
gruff  spirit: 

"  My  name's  Jack  Bunsbyl " 

"  He  was  christened  John,"  cried  the  delighted  Cap- 
tain Cuttle.     "  Hear  him! " 

"  And  what  I  says,"  pursued  the  voice,  after  some  de- 
liberation, "I  stands  to," 

The  captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the 
auditory,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Now  he's  coming  out 
This  is  what  I  meant  when  I  brought  him," 

"Whereby,"  proceeded  the  voice,  "why  not?  If  so. 
what  odds?  Can  any  man  say  otherwise?  No.  Awast 
then!" 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  this 
point,  the  voice  stopped  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded 
very  slowly,  thus: 

"Do  I  believe  that  this  here  Son  and  Heir's  gone 
down,  my  lads?  Mayhap.  Do  I  say  so?  Which?  If  a 
skipper  stands  out  by  Sen"  George's  Channel,  making 
for  tne  Downs,  wbafs  right  ahead  of  him?  The  Good- 
wins. He  isn't  forced  to  run  upon  the  Goodwins,  but  he 
may.  The  bearincs  of  this  observation  lays  in  the  ap- 
plication on  it.  That  an't  no  part  of  my  duty.  Awast 
then,  keep  a  bright  lookout  for'ard,  and  good  luck  to 
you  I " 

The  voice  here  went  out  of  the  back  parlor  and  into 
the  street,  taking  tlie  commander  of  the  Cautious  Ciara 
with  it,  and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all 
convenient  expedition,  where  he  immediately  turned  in, 
and  refreshed  liis  mind  with  a  nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage's  precepts,  left  to  their  own 
application  of  his  wisdom — upon  a  principle  w^hich  was 
the  main  leg  of  the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of 
some  other  oracular  stools — looked  at  one  another  in  a 
little  uncertainty;  while  Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had 
taken  the  innocent  freedom  of  peering  in,  and  listening, 
through  the  skylight  in  the  root,  came  softly  down  from 
the  leads,  in  a  state  of  verv  dense  confusion.  Captain 
Cuttle,  however,  whose  admiration  of  Bunsby  was.  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  357 

jtosailjle,  enhanced  by  the  splendid  manner  in  which  he 
had  justified  his  reputation  and  come  through  this 
solemn  reference,  proceeded  to  explain  that  Bunsby 
meant  nothing  but  confidence;  that  Bunshy  had  no  mis- 
givingB;  and  that  such  au  opinion  as  that  man  had 
given,  coming  from  such  a  mind  as  his,  was  Hope's  own 
anchor,  and  with  good  roads  to  cast  it  in.  Florence  en- 
deavored to  believe  that  the  captain  was  right;  but  the 
Nipper,  with  her  arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in 
resolute  denial,  and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than 
in  Mr,  Perch  himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty 
much  where  lie  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roam- 
ing about  the  watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and 
discovering  no  rest  for  tliem.  It  was  in  pursuance  of  a 
whisper  in  his  ear  from  Florence,  while  the  old  man 
was  absorbed  in  this  pursuit,  that  Captain  Cuttle  laid 
his  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  What  cheer,  Sol  Gills? "  cried  the  captain,  heartily, 

"  But  so-so,  Ned,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 
"  I  have  been  remembering,  all  this  afternoon,  that  on 
the  very  day  when  my  boy  entered  Domtiey's  bouse, 
and  came  home  late  to  dinner,  sitting  just  there  where 
you  stand,  we  talked  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  and  I 
could  hardly  turn  him  from  the  subject. 

But  meetmg  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed 
with  earnest  scrutiny  upon  his  face,  the  old  man  stopped 
and  smiled. 

"Stand  by,  old  friend! "cried  the  captain.  "Look 
alivet  I  tell  you  what,  Sol  Gills;  arter  I've  convoyed 
Heart's-delight  safe  home,"  here  the  captain  kissed  liis 
hook  to  Florence,  "I'll  come  back  and  take  you  in  tow 
for  the  rest  of  this  blessed  day.  You'll  come  and  eat 
your  dinner  along  with  me,  Sol,  somewheres  or  other." 

"  Not  to-day,  Ned! "  said  the  old  man  quickly,  and  ap- 
pearing to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  proposition. 
"Not  to-day,     I  couldn't  do  it." 

""Why  not?"  returned  the  captain,  gazing  at  him  in 
astonishment. 

"I — I  have  so  much  to  do.  I — I  mean  to  think  of, 
and  arrange.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.  I  must  go 
out  again,  and  be  alone,  and  turn  my  mind  to  many 
things  to-day." 

The  captain  looked  at  tlie  Instrument.-T(\B«.VeT ,  a.iv\ 


358  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

looked  at  Florence,  and  again  at  the  Instrument-maker. 
"To-morrow,  then,"  he  suggested  at  last. 

"Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man.  "Think 
of  me  to-morrow.     Say  to-morrow." 

"  I  Bhall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  QiUs,"  atipulsted 
the  captain. 

"Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said  old 
Sol;  "and  now  good  by,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  Wessyou!" 

Squeezing  both  the  captain's  hands,  with  uncommon 
fervor,  as  He  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence, 
folded  hers  in  his  own,  and  put  them  to  hie  lips;  then 
hurried  her  out  to  the  coach  with  very  singular  preciiji- 
tation.  Altogether,  he  made  such  an  effect  on  Captain 
Cuttle  that  the  captain  lingered  behind,  and  instnicW 
Rob  to  be  particularly  gentle  and  attentive  to  his  master 
until  the  morning:  which  injunction  he  strengthened 
with  the  payment  of  one  shilling  down,  and  the  promise 
of  another  sixpence  before  noon  next  day.  This  kind 
office  performed.  Captain  Cuttle,  who  considered  him- 
self the  natural  and  lawful  body-guard  of  Florence, 
mounted  the  box  with  a  mighty  sense  of  his  trust,  and 
escorted  her  home.  At  parting,  he  assured  her  that  he 
would  stand  by  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true;  and  once  again 
inquired  of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gaUant 
words  in  reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "Would  you, 
do  you  think,  my  dear,  though!" 

When  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two,  the 
captain's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  Instrument-maker, 
and  he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore,  instead  of  going 
home,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times, 
and,  eking  out  his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a 
certain  angular  little  tavern  in  the  city,  with  a  public 
parlfir  like  a  wedge,  to  which  glazed  hats  much  resorted. 
The  captain's  principal  intention  was  to  pass  Sol  Gills's 
after  dark,  and  look  in  through  the  winuo^-:  which  he 
did.  The  parlor  door  stood  open,  and  he  could  see  his 
old  friend  writing  busily  and  steadily  at  the  table  within, 
while  the  little  Midshipman,  already  sheltered  from  the 
night  dews,  watched  him  from  the  counter;  under  which 
Rod  the  Grinder  made  his  own  bed,  preparatory  to  shut- 
ting the  shop.  Re-assured  by  the  tranquillity  that  reigned 
within  the  precincts  of  the  wooden  mariner,  the  captain 
headed  for  Brig  Place,  resolving  to  weigh  anchor  be- 
times in  the  morning. 

DigilicJb,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  359 

CHAPTER  XXrV. 

THE  STUDY  OF  A  LOVINa  BEABT. 

Sm  Baknbt  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  people,  re- 
sided in  a  pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  tne  bants  of  tl»e 
Thames;  which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residences 
■  in  the  world  when  a  rowing-match  happened  to  be  go- 
ing past,  but  had  its  little  inconveniences  at  other 
times,  among  which  may  ba  enumerated  the  occasional 
appearance  of  the  river  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
contemporaneous  disappearance  of  the  lawn  and  shrub- 
bery. 

Sir  Bamet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  consequence 
chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuiT-box,  and  a  pon- 
derous silk  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  im- 
posing manner  of  drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a 
banner,  and  using  with  both  hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet's 
object  in  life  was  constantly  to  extend  the  range  of  his 
acquaintance.  Like  a  heavy  body  dropped  into  water 
— not  to  disparage  so  worthy  a  gentleman  by  the  com- 
parison— it  was  m  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir  Barnet 
must  spread  an  ever-widening  circle  about  him,  until 
there  was  no  room  left.  Or,  lite  a  sound  in  air,  the  vi- 
bration of  which,  according  to  the  speculation  of  an  in- 
genious modern  philosopher,  may  go  on  travelling  for 
ever  through  the  interminable  fields  of  space,  nothing 
but  coming  to  the  end  of  his  moral  tether  could  stop  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through  the 
social  system. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acquainted 
with  people.  Ho  liked  the  thing  for  Iiis  own  sake,  and 
It  advancedjiis  favorite  object  too.  F.ot  example,  if  Sir 
Barnet  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  hold  of  a  raw  recruit, 
or  a  country  gentleman,  and  ensnared  Iiim  to  his  hospi- 
table villa.  Sir  Barnet  would  say  to  him,  on  the  morning 
after  his  arrival,  "Now,  my  dear  sir,  is  there  anybwdy 
you  would  like  to  know?  Who  is  there  you  would  wish 
to  meet?  Do  you  take  any  interest  in  writing  people, 
or  in  painting  or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  acting  people, 
or  in  anything  of  that  sort? ''  Possibly  the  patient  an- 
swered yes,  and  mentioned  somebody,  of  whom  Sir 
Barnet  bad  no  more  personal  knowledge  ttiaiv  ol  "yViV 


;((iO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

emy  the  Great.  Sir  Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on 
earth  was  easier,  as  he  knew  him  very  well:  immedi- 
ately called  on  the  aforesaid  somebody,  left  his  card, 
wrote  a  short  note, — "  My  dear  Sir— penalty  of  ^our 
eminent  position — friend  at  my  house  naturally  desirous 
— Lady  Skettles  and  myself  participate — tniat  that  gen- 
ius being  superior  to  ceremonies,  you  will  do  us  the  dis- 
tinguished favor  of  giving  us  the  pleasure."  &c.  Arc- 
ana so  killed  a  brace  of  birds  with  one  stone,  dead  as 
door-nails. 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force.  Sir  Bamet 
Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence  on 
the  first  morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence  thanked 
him,  and  said  there  was  no  one  in  particular  whom  she 
desired  to  see,  it  was  natural  she  should  think  with  a 
pang  of  poor  lost  Walter.  When  Sir  Barnet  Skettles, 
urging  his  kind  offer,  said,  "  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  are 
you  sure  you  can  remember  no  one  whom  your  good 
papa — to  *rhom  1  beg  you  to  present  the  best  compli- 
ments of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles  when  you  write— 
might  wishyou  to  know?"  it  was  natural,  perhaps,  that 
her  poor  head  should  droop  a  little,  and  that  her  voict 
should  tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in  the  negative. 

Skettles  junior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and 
sobered  down  as  to  his  spirits,  was  at  home  for  the  holi- 
days, and  appeared  to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the  , 
Rolieitudo  of  his  excellent  mother  that  he  should  be  at- 
tentive to  Florence,  Another  and  a  deeper  injury  un- 
der which  the  soul  of  young  Barnet  chafed,  was  the 
comjiany  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  been  invited 
fin  a  visit  to  the  parental  roof  tree,  and  of  whom  the 
young  gentleman  often  said  he  would  have  preferred 
their  passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho. 

"  Is  there  anybody  you  can  suggest,  jow.  Doctor 
Blimber?"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that 
Rentieman, 

■■  You  are  very  kind,  Sir  Bamet,"  returned  Doctor 
Blimber.  "Really  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in 
particular.  I  like  to  know  my  fellow  men  in  general, 
SirBarnet.  What  does  Terence  say?  Any  one  who  is 
the  parent  of  a  son  is  interesting  to  me." 

"Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable 
person?"  asked  Sir  Barnet  courteously. 

Mcs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  shake 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  361 

of  her  sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made 
her  known  to  Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him:  but 
Huch  an  introduction  not  being  feasible,  and  she  already 
enjoying  the  frieudship  of  himself  and  his  amiable  lady, 
and  possessing  with  the  Doctor  her  husband  their  joint 
conndeuce  in  regard  to  their  dear  son— ^here  young  Bar- 
net  weis  observed  to  curl  hia  nose— she  asked  no  more. 

Sir  Barnet  was  fain,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
content  himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assem- 
bled, Florence  was  glad  of  that;  for  she  had  a  study  to 
pursue  among  them,  and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart,  and 
was  too  precious  and  momentous,  to  yield  to  any  other 
interest. 

There  were  some  children  staving  in  the  house.  Chil- 
dren who  were  as  frank  and  nappy  with  fathers  and 
with  mothers  as  those  rosy  faces  opjfosite  home.  Chil- 
dren who  had  no  restraint  upon  their  love,  and  freely 
showed  it,  Florence  sought  to  learn  their  secret;  sought 
to  find  out  what  it  was  she  had  missed:  what  simple  art 
they  knew,  and  she  knew  not;  how  she  could  be  taught 
by  them  to  show  her  father  that  she  loved  him,  and  to 
w^in  his  love  again. 

Many  a  day  did  Florence  thoughtfully^  observe  these 
children.  On  manj[  a  bright  morning  did  slie  leave  her 
bed  when  the  glorious  sun  rose,  and  walking  up  and 
down  upon  the  river's  bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house 
w^as  stirring,  look  up  at  the  windows  of  their  rooms, 
and  think  of  them,  asleep,  so  gently  tended  and  affec- 
tionately thought  of.  Florence  would  feel  more  lonely 
then,  than  in  the  great  house  all  alone;  and  would 
think  sometimes  that  she  was  better  there  than  here, 
and  that  there  was  greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than 
in  mingling  with  others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how 
unlike  them  all  she  was.  But  attentive  to  her  study, 
though  it  touched  her  to  the  quick  at  every  little  leaf 
she  turned  in  the  hard  book,  Florence  remained  among 
them,  and  tried,  with  patient  hope,  to  gain  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  wearied  for. 

Ah!  how  to  gain  it!  how  to  know  the  charm  in  its  be- 
ginning! There,  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up  in 
the  morning,  ancl  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  possessed 
of  fathers'  hearts  already.  They  had  no  repulse  to  over- 
come, no  coldness  to  dread,  no  frown  to  smoolVv  a.'wo:^ . 
As  the  morning  advanced,  and  the  windows  o^eTvei.  ^sua 


G2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

py  one,  and  the  dew  began  to  dty  upon  the  flowers  and 
rrass,  and  youthful  feet  began  to  move  upon  the  lawn, 
Horence,  glancing  round  at  the  bright  taces,  thought 
vhat  was  there  she  could  learn  from  these  children?  It 
vas  too  late  to  leam  from  them;  each  could  approach 
ler  father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her  lips  to  meet  the 
eady  kiss,  and  wind  her  arm  about  the  neck  that  bent 
lown  to  caress  her.  She  could  not  begin  by  being  bo 
told.  Oh,  could  it  be  that  there  was  less  and  less  hope 
IS  she  studied  more  and  morel 

She  remembered  well,  that  even  the  old  woman  who 
lad  robbed  her  when  a  little  child — whose  image  and 
those  house,  and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were 
tamped  upon  her  recollection,  with  the  enduring  sharp- 
less  of  a  fearful  impression  made  at  that  early  period 
if  life — had  spoken  fondly  of  her  daughter,  and  how 
erribly  even  sne  had  cried  out  in  the  pain  of  hopeless 
eparation  from  her  child.  But  her  own  mother,  she 
vould  think  again,  when  she  recalled  this,  had  loved 
lor  well.  Then,  sometimes,  when  her  thoughts  reverted 
wif tly  to  the  void  between  herself  and  her  father,  Flor- 
■nce  would  tremble,  and  the  tears  would  start  upon 
ler  face,  as  she  pictured  to  herself  her  mother  living  on, 
md  coming  also  to  dislike  her,  because  of  her  wanting 
he  unknown  grace  that  should  conciliate  that  father 
laturally,  and  had  never  done  so  from  her  cradle.  She 
mew  that  this  imagination  did  wrong  to  her  mother's 
nemory,  and  had  no  truth  in  it^  or  base  to  rest  upon; 
tnd  yet  she  tried  so  hard  to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the 
vhofe  blame  in  herself,  that  she  could  not  resist  its 
tasaing,  like  a  wild  cloud,  through  the  distance  of  her 
iiind. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Flor- 
nce,  one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  young?r 
han  she,  who  was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  ac- 
ompanied  by  her  aunt,  a  grey-haired  ladv,  who  spoke 
micli  to  Florence,  and  who  greatly  liked  (out  that  thev 
ill  did)  to  hear  her  sing  of  an  evening,  and  would  al- 
ways sit  near  her  at  that  time,  with  motherly  interest. 
They  had  only  been  two  days  in  the  house,  when  Flor- 
ince,  being  in  an  arbor  in  trie  garden  one  warm  mom- 
ng,  musingly  observant  of  a  youthful  group  upon  the 
urf,  through  some  intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing 
lowers  for  the  head  of  one  little  creature  among  them 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  30;! 

who  was  the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  this 
same  lady  ana  her  niece,  in  pacing  up  and  down  a  shel- 
tered nook  close  by,  speak  of  herself. 

"Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt?"  said  the 
child. 

"  No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is 
living." 

"  Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mama  now? "  in- 
quired the  child,  quickly. 

'■  No;  for  her  only  brother." 

''  Has  she  no  other  brother?" 

"  None." 

"  No  sister?" 

"  None." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry!"  said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats, 
and  had  oeen  silent  in  the  meantime,  Florence,  who  had 
risen  when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up 
her  flowers  to  go  and  meet  them,  that  they  might  know 
of  her  being  within  hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work, 
expecting  to  hear  uo  more;  but  the  conversation  recom- 
menced next  momeut, 

"  Florence  is  a  favorite  with  every  one  here,  and  de- 
serves to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  child,  earnestly. 
•'  Where  is  her  papa?  " 

The  aunt  replied  after  a  moment's  pause,  that  she  did 
not  know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who 
had  started  from  her  seat  again;  and  held  her  fastened 
to  the  spot,  with  her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her 
bosom,  and  her  two  hands  saving  it  from  being  scattered 
on  the  ground. 

"  He  IS  in  England,  I  hope,  aunt?  "  said  the  child. 

"  I  believe  so.     Yes;  1  know  he  is,  indeed." 

"Has  he  ever  been  here?" 

"  I  believe  not.     No," 

"  Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her? " 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt?"  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to 
fall  when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderiugly  spoken. 
She  held  them  closer;  and  her  face  hung  down  upon 
them. 

"  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  otftWaxisi^, 
"I  will  tellyou  the  B-hoietruth  about  Florence  as  \\«B.Ne 


364  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

heard  it,  and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my  dear, 
because  it  may  be  little  known  here,  and  your  doing  bo 
would  give  her  pain." 

"I never  willl "exclaimed  the  child, 

"  I  know  you  never  will,"  returned  the  lady.  "I  can 
trust  you  as  myself.  I  fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florences 
father  cares  little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  ncTcr 
was  kind  to  her  in  her  life,  and  now  quite  shuDS  her  and 
avoids  her.  She  would  love  him  dearly  if  he  would  suf- 
fer her,  but  he  will  not —  though  for  no  fault  of  hers; 
and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied  by  all  gentle 
hearts." 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held  fell  scatteriD^' 
on  the  ground:  those  that  remained  were  wet,  butnui 
with  dew-  and  her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  handi>. 

"Poor  Florence!  Dear,  good  Florence!"  cried  the 
child. 

•'  Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate?  "  said 
the  lady, 

"That  I  may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care 
to  try  to  please  her.    Is  that  the  reason,  aunt?" 

"  Partly,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  not  all.  Though  wesee 
her  so  cheerful;  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every,  one: 
ready  to  oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in  every 
amusement  here:  she  can  hardly  be  quite  nappy,  do  you 
think  she  can,  Kate?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  the  little  giri. 

"  And  you  can  understand,"  pursued  the  lady,  "  why 
her  observation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are 
fond  of  them,  and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just 
now — should  make  her  sorrowful  in  secret?      . 

■•  Yes,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  child,  "  I  understand  that 
very  well.     Poor  Florence!  " 

Jlorc  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she 
yet  held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were 
nistling  them. 

"  My  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  wag  serious, 
but  very  calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence 
from  the  first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  "  Of  all  the 
youthful  people  here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless 
friend;  you  nave  not  the  innocent  means  that  happier 
children  have  " — 

"  There  are  none  happier,  aunt!  "  exclaimed  the  child, 
who  seemed  to  cling  awout  her. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3(i5 

—  "  As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding 
her  of  her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you, 
when  you  try  to  be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more  for 
that,  and  feel  that  the  bereavement  you  sustained — 
thank  Heaven!  before  you  knew  its  weight — gives  you 
claim  and  hold  upon  poor  Florence." 

"But  I  am  not  without  a  parent's  love,  aunt,  and  I 
never  have  been,"  said  the  child,  "  with  j'ou." 

"  However,  that  may  be,  my  dear,"  returned  the  lady, 
" your  misfortune  isajighter  one  than  Florence's;  for 
not  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as 
the  child  who  is  an  outcast  from  a  living  parent's  love." 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust: 
the  empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face;  and 
orphaned  Florence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground, 
wept  long  and  bitterly. 

But  true  of  heart  and  resolute  in  her  good  purpose, 
Florence  held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  her 
upon  the  day  that  gave  Paul  life.  He  did  not  know  how 
much  she  loved  him.  However  long  the  time  is  com- 
ing, and  however  slow  the  interval,  she  must  try  to 
bring  that  knowledge  to  her  father's  heart  one  day  or 
other.  Meantime  she  must  be  careful  in  no  thoughtless 
word,  or  look,  or  burst  of  feeling  awakened  by  any 
chance  circumstance,  to  complain  against  him,  or  to 
give  occasion  for  these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  the  orphan  child,  to 
whom  she  was  attracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  had 
such  occasion  to  remember,  Florence  was  mindful  of 
him.  If  she  singled  her  out  too  plainly  (Florence 
thought)  from  among  the  rest,  she  would  confirm — in 
one  mind  certainly:  perhaps  in  more — the  belief  that  ho 
was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her  own  delight  was  no  set- 
off to  this.  What  she  had  overheard  was  a  reason,  not 
for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him;  and  Florence 
did  it,  in  pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart. 

She  dia  BO  alwaj-s,  If  a  book  were  read  aloud,  and 
there  were  anything  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an 
unkind  father,  she  was  in  pain  for  their  application  of 
it  to  him;  not  for  hei-self.  So  with  any  trifle  of  an  in- 
terlude that  was  acted,  ot  picture  that  was  shown,  or 
game  that  was  played,  among  them.  The  occasions  for 
such  tenderness  towards  him  were  so  many,  that  her 
niind  misgave  her  often,  it  would  indeed  be  bettei:  to  ^o 


366  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

back  to  the  old  house,  and  live  i^ain  within  the 
shadow  of  its  dull  walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who 
saw  sweet  Florence,  in  her  spring  of  womanhood,  the 
modest  little  queen  of  those  small  revels,  imeigined 
what  a  load  oi  sacred  care  la^  heavy  in  her  breast! 
How  few  of  those  who  stiffened  in  her  father's  freezing 
atmosphere  suspected  what  a  heap  of  fiery  coals  was 
piled  upon  his  head! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing  to 
acquire  the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sougbt 
among  the  youthful  company  who  were  assembled  in 
the  house,  often  walked  out  alone,  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, among  the  children  of  the  poor.  But  still  she  found 
them  all  too  far  advanced  to  learn  from.  They  had  won 
their  household  places  long  ago,  and  did  not  stand 
without,  as  she  did,  with  a  bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed 
at  work  very  early,  and  often  with  a  girl  of  about  her 
own  age  seated  near  him.  He  was  a  very  t)oor  man, 
who  seemed  to  have  no  regular  employment,  but  now 
went  roaming  about  the  bonks  of  tne  river  when  the 
tide  was  low,  looking  out  for  bits  and  scraps  in  the 
mud;  and  now  worked  at  the  uncompromising  little 
patch  of  garden-ground  before  his  cottage;  and  now 
tinkered  up  a  miserable  old  boat  that  belonged  to  him; 
or  did  some  job  of  .that  kind  for  a  neighbor,  as  chance 
occurred.  Whatever  the  man's  labor,  the  girl  was 
never  employed;  but  sat,  when  she  was  with  hma,  in  a 
listless,  mopmg  state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man;  yet 
she  had  never  taken  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no 
movement  towards  her.  But  one  raorning  when  she 
happened  to  come  upon  him  suddenly,  from  a  by-path 
among  some  pollard  willows  which  terminated  in  the 
little  shelving  piece  of  stony  ground  that  lay  between 
his  dwelling  and  the  water,  where  he  was  bending  over 
a  fire  he  had  made  to  caulk  the  old  boat  which  was 
lying  bottom  upwards,  close  by,  he  raised  his  head  at 
tne  sound  of  her  footstep,  and  gave  her  Good  morning. 

'I  Good  morning,"  said  Florence;  approaching  nearer, 
"  you  are  at  work  early." 

"  Fd  be  glad  to  be  often  at  work,  earlier,  miss,  if  I  had 
work  to  do." 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  get? "  asked  Florence. 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AKD  son.  367 

"  /find  it  BO,"  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  Bittiae,  drawn 
together,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  Her  chin 
onher  hands,  and  said: 

"  Is  that  vour  daughter?" 

He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  looking  towards  the 
girl  with  a  brightened  face,  nodded  to  ner,  and  said 
"Yes,"  Florence  looked  towards  her  too,  and  gave 
her  a  kind  salutation;  the  girl  muttered  something  in 
return,  ungraciously  and  sullenly. 

"  Is  she  m  want  of  emplovnient  also?  "  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  heaci.  "Ko,  miss,"  he  said.  "I 
work  for  both." 

"  Are  there  only  you  two,  then?"  inquired  Florence. 

"Only  us  two,"  said  the  man.  "Her  mother  has 
been  dead  these  ten  year.  Martha!"  (he  lifted  up  his 
head  again,  and  whistled  to  her).  "Won't  you  say  a 
word  to  the  pretty  young  lady?  " 

The  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cower- 
ing shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  way.  Ugly, 
mis-shapen,  peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty— but 
beloved!  Oh,  yesl  Florence  had  seen  her  father  s  look 
towards  her,  and  she  knew  whose  look  it  had  no  like- 
ness to. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  worse  this  morning,  my  poor  girl! " 
said  the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating 
his  ill-favored  child  with  a  compassion  that  was  the 
more  tender  for  being  rough. 

"  She  is  ill,  then! "  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  don't  believe  my 
Martha's  had  five  short  days'  good  health,"  he  an- 
swered, looking  at  her  still,  "  in  as  many  long  years." 

"  Ay!  and  more  than  that.  John,"  said  a  neighbor, 
who  had  come  down  to  help-him  with  the  boat. 

"  More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you?  "  cried  the  other, 
pushing  back  his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  "  Very  like.  It  seems  a  long,  long 
time." 

"And  the  more  the  time,"  pursued  the  neighbor,  "the 
more  you've  favored  -and  humored  her,  John,  till  she's 
got  to  be  a  burden  to  herself,  and  everybody  else." 

"Not  to  me,"  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work 
again.     "  Not  to  me." 

Florence  could  feet— who  better?— how  ttuX-jVftsv^J*-'^' 


368  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  touch  his  rugged  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his 
goodness  to  the  miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon 
with  eyes  so  different  from  any  other  man's. 

"  Who  would  favor  my  poor  girl — to  call  it  favoring— 
if  I  didn't?  "  said  the  father. 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbor.  "In  reason,  John, 
But  you!  You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind 
yourself  hand  and  foot  on  her  account.  You  made  your 
life  miserable  along  of  her.  And  what  does  she  carel 
You  don't  believe  she  knows  it?" 

The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  whistled  to 
her;  Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her 
crouching  shoulders,  in  reply;  and  he  was  glad  and 
happy. 

"  Only  for  that,  miss,"  said  the  neighbor  with  a  smile, 
in  whicn  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he 
expressed;  "  only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of 
his  sight! " 

"Because  the  day'U  come,  and  has  been  coming  a 
long  while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  nis 
work,  "  when  to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate 
child  of  mine — to  get  the  trembling  of  a  finger,  or  the 
waving  of  a  hair— would  be  to  raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the 
old  boat,  and  left  nim. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall 
ill,  if  she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he 
then  know  that  she  had  loved  him;  would  she  then 
grow  dear  to  him;  would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when 
she  was  weak  and  dim  of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his 
embrace,  and  cancel  all  the  past?  Would  he  so  forgive 
her,  in  that  changed  condition,  for  not  having  been  able 
to  lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as  to  make  it  eas^ 
to  relate  with  what  emotions  she  had  gone  out  of  bis 
room  that  night;  what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had 
had  the  courage;  and  how  she  had  endeavored,  after- 
wards, to  learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  sne  were  dying,  he  would  relent. 
She  thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwillingto 
depart,  upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with 
recollections  of  their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched 
hoinc,  and  would  say,  "  Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and 
we  will  love  each  other  as  we  might  have  done,  and  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  369 

as  happy  as  we  might  have  been  these  many  years!" 
She  tnought  that  if  she  heard  such  words  from  him, 
and  bad  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  answer 
with  a  smile,  "It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this;  I 
never  could  be  happier,  dear  fatherl"  and  so  leave  him, 
with  a  blessing  on  her  lips. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  vail  ap- 
peared to  Florence,  in  the  light  of  such  reflections,  only 
as  a  current  flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a  region  where 
the  dear  ones,  gone  before,  were  waiting,  hand  in  hand; 
and  often  when  she  looked  upon  the  darker  river  rip- 
pling at  her  feet,  she  thought  with  awful  wonder,  but 
not  terror,  of  that  river  which  her  brother  had  so  often 
said  was  bearing  him  away. 

The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in 
Florence's  mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a 
week  old,  when  Sir  Bamet  and  his  lady  going  out  walk- 
ing in  the  lanes  one  afternoon,  proposed  to  her  to  bear 
them  company.  Florence  readily  consenting.  Lady 
Skettles  ordered  out  young  Barnet  as  a  matter  of  course. 
For  nothing  delighted  Lady  Skettles  so  much  as  behold- 
ing  her  eldest  son  with  Florence  on  his  arm. 

Bamet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  entertain  an  op- 
posite sentiment  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions 
irequently  expressed  himself  audibly,  though  indefi- 
nitely, in  reference  to  "  a  parcel  of  girls."  As  it  was 
not  easy  to  ruffle  her  sweet  temper,  however,  Florence 
generafly  reconciled  the  young  gentleman  to  his  fate 
after  a  few  minutes,  and  they  strolled  on  amicably: 
Lady  Skettles  and  Sir  Barnet  following,  in  a  state  of 
perfect  complacency  and  high  gratification. 

This  was  the  order  of  procedure  on  the  afternoon  in 
question:  and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  over- 
ruling the  present  objections  of  Skettles  junior  to  his 
destiny,  when  a  gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding 
by,  looked  at  them  earnestly  as  he  passed,  drew  in  his 
rein,  wheeled  round,  and  came  riding  hack  again,  hat 
in  hand. 

The  gentleman  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence; 
and  when  tlie  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back, 
he  bowed  to  her  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady. 
Florence  had  no  remembrance  of  having  ever  seen 
him,  but  she  started  involuntarily  when  he  cama  neai 
her.  and  drew  back. 


370  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

"  My  horae  is  perfectly  quiet,  I  assure  you,"  said  the 
gentlemao. 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  him- 
self— Florence  could  not  have  said  what — that  made 
her  recoil  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I  he- 
lieve?"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  most  persuasive 
smile.  On  Florence  inclining  her  head,  he  aadeji.  "Mt 
name  is  Carker.  I  can  hardly  hope  to  be  remembereo 
by  Miss  Dombey,  except  by  name.    Carker," 

Florence,  sensible  of  a  strange  inclination  to  shiver, 
though  the  day  was  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and 
hostess;  by  whom  he  was  very  graciously  received, 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  a  thousand  times! 
But  I  am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, at  Leamington,  and  if  Miss  Dombey  can  intruBt 
me  with  any  commission,  need  I  say  how  very  happy  I 
shall  be?" 

Sir  Bafnet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would 
desire  to  write  a  letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return, 
and  besought  Mr.  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  his 
riding  gear.  Mr.  Carker  had  tlie  misfortune  to  be  en- 
gaged for  dinner,  but  if  Miss  Dombey  wished  to  write, 
nothing  would  delight  him  more  than  to  accompany 
them  back,  and  to  be  her  faithful  slave  in  waiting  as 
long  as  she  pleased.  As  he  said  this  with  his  wiaest 
smue,  and  bent  down  close  to  her  to  pat  his  horse's  neck. 
Florence,  meeting  his  eyes,  saw  rather  than  heard  him 
say,  "  There  is  no  news  of  the  ship! " 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not 
even  sure  that  Tie  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed 
to  have  shown  them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  man- 
ner through  his  smile,  instead  of  uttering  them,  Flor- 
ence faintly  said  that  she  was  obliged  to  him,  but  she 
would  not  write;  she  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Nothing  to  send,  Miss  Dombey,  said  the  roan  of 
teeth. 

"Nothing,"  said  Florence,  ""but  my — but  ray  dear 
love — if  you  please." 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look  that  plainly 
besought  him,  if  he  knew — wnich  he  as  plainly  did— 
that  any  message  between  her  and  her  father  was  an 
uncommon  charge,  but  that  one  most  of  all,  to  spare 


DOMBEY  AND  bOX.  3J1 

her.  Mr.  Carker  smiled  and  bowed  low,  and  being 
charged  by  Sir  Barnet  with  the  best  compliments  ot 
himself  and  Lady  Skettlee,  took  hiB  leave,  and  rode 
away:  leaving  a  favorable  impression  on  that  worthy 
couple.  Florence  was  seized  with  such  a  shudder  as 
he  went,  that  Sir  Barnet,  adopting  the  popular  supersti- 
tion, supposed  somebody  was  passing  over  her  grave. 
Mr.  Carker,  turning  a  comer,  on  the  instant,  looked 
back,  and  bowed,  and  disappeared,  as  if  he  rode  off 
to  the  churchyard,  straight,  to  do  it. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

STRANGE  NEWS  OF  UNCLE  SOL. 

Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  turn  so 
early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills,  through 
the  shop-window,  writing  in  the  parlor,  with  the  Mid- 
shipman upon  the  counter,  and  Rod  the  Grinder  making 
up  nis  bed  below  it,  but  that  the  clock  struck  six  as  he 
raised  himself  on  bis  elbow,  and  took  a  survey  of  his 
little  chamber.  The  captain's  eyes  must  have  done 
severe  duty,  if  he  usually  opened  them  as  wide  on 
awaking  as  he  did  that  morning:  and  were  but  roughly 
rewarded  for  their  vigilance,  if  he  generally  rubbed 
them  half  as  hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no  common 
one,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  Captain  Cuttle's  bedroom  before,  and 
in  it  he  stood  then,  panting  at  the  captain,  with  a  flushed 
and  touzled  air  of  bed  at^ut  him,  ttiat  greatly  height- 
ened both  his  color  and  expression. 

"  Holloa! "  roared  the  captain.    "  What's  the  matter?  " 

Before  Rob  could  stammer  a  word  in  answer.  Captain 
Cuttle  turned  out,  all  in  a  heap,  and  covered  the  boy's 
mouth  with  his  hand. 

"Steady  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "don't  ye  speak 
a  word  to  me  as  yet! " 

The  captain,  looking  at  his  visitor  in  great  consterna- 
tion, gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  room,  after 
laying  this  injunction  upon  him;  and  disappearing  for 
a  few  momenta,  forthwith  returned  in  tae  \jVu6  »i\\.. 


a72  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Holding  up  his  hand  in  token  of  the  injunction  not  yet 
heing  taken  off,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  to  the  cup- 
board, and  poured  himself  out  a  dram;  a  counterpart  of 
which  he  handed  to  the  messeager.  The  captain  then 
stood  himself  up  in  a  comer,  against  the  wall,  as  il  to 
forestall  the  possibility  of  being  knocked  backward  V 
the  communication  that  was  to  be  made  to  him;  ftod 
having  swallowed  his  liquor,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
messenger,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  bis  face  could  be,  re- 
quested him  to  "  heave-a-head." 

"Do  you  mean^  tell  you,  captain?"  asked  Rob,  who 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

"  Ay!  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Rob,  "  I  ain't  got  much  to  tell  But 
look  here!" 

Rob  produced  a  bundle  of  keys.    The  captain  surveyed 
them,  remained  in  his  comer,  and  surveyed  the  mes- 


"  And  look  here!"  pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a  sealed  packet,  which  Captain 
Cuttle  stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"  When  I  woke  this  morning,  captain,"  said  EoK 
"  which  was  about  a  quarter  after  five,  I  found  these  on 
my  pillow.  The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked, 
and  Mr,  Gills  gone." 

"  Gonel "  roared  the  captain. 

"  Flowed,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

The  captain's  voice  was  so  tremendous,  and  he  came 
out  of  his  corner  with  such  way  on  bim,  that  Rob  re- 
treated before  him  into  another  corner:  holding  out  the 
keys  and  packet,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  run 
down, 

'"For  Captain  Cuttle.' sir,"  cried  Rob,  "is  on  the 
keys,  and  on  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  honor, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  know  anything  more  about  it.  1 
wish  I  may  die  if  I  do!  Here 's  a  sitiwation  for  a  lad 
that's  just  got  a  sitiwation,"  cried  the  unfortunate 
Grindfer,  screwing  his  cuff  into  his  face:  "his  master 
bolted  with  his  place,  and  him  blamed  for  it!" 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
gaze,  or  rather  glare,  which  was  full  of  vague  suspi- 
cions, threatenings,  and  denunciations.  Taking  the  prof- 
fered packet  from  his  hand,  the  captain  opened  it  and 
read  as  follows:— 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  373 

■'  ■  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Enclosed  is  my  will! ' "  The 
ptain  turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look —  "'and 
itaraenj.'  Where 's  the  testament?"  said  the  captain, 
stantly'  impeaching  the  ill-fated  Grinder.  "  What 
.Te  you  done  with  that,  my  lad?" 
"/never  see  it,"  whimpered  Rob.  "Don't  keep  on 
specting  an  innocent  lad,  captain.  I  never  touched 
e  testament." 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  some- 
xly  must  be  made  answerable  for  it;  and  gravely  pro- 
'eded: — 

'"Which  don't  break  open  for  a  year,  or  until  you 
»ve  decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is 
jar  to  you,  Ned,  too,  I  am  sure.' "  The  captain  paused 
id  shook  his  head  in  some  emotion;  then,  as  a  re-es- 
.hlishment  of  his  dignity  in  this  trying  position,  looked 
ith  exceeding  sternness  at  the  Grinder.  "  '  If  you 
lould  never  hear  of  me,  or  see  me  more,  Ned,  remem- 
Jr  an  old  friend  as  he  will  remember  you  to  the  last — 
indly;  and  at  least  until  the  period  Inave  mentioned 
is  expired,  keep  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter. 
here  are  no  debts,  the  loan  from  Dombey's  house  is 
lid  off,  and  all  ray  kej^s  I  send  with  this.  Keep  this 
liet,  and  make  no  inquiry  for  me;  it  is  useless.  So  no 
ore,  dear  Ned,  from  your  true  friend,  Solomon  Gills.'" 
be  captain  took  a  long  breath,  and  then  read  these 
ords,  written  below:  "'The  boy  Rob,  well  recom- 
ended,  as  I  told  yon,  from  Dombey's  house.  If  all 
se  should  come  to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned,  of  the 
■tie  Midshipman.' " 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in 
hich  the  captam,  after  turning  this  letter  over  and 
"er,  and  reading  it  a  score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his 
lair,  and  held  a  court-martial  on  the  subject  in  his 
vn  mind,  would  require  the  united  genius  of  all  the 
eat  men,  who,  discarding  their  own  untoward  days, 
ive  determined  to  go  down  to  posterity,  and  have 
'ver  got  there.  At  first  the  captain  was  too  much  con- 
UndM  and  distressed  to  think  of  anything  but  the 
tter  itself;  and  even  when  his  thoughts  began  to 
ance  upon  the  various  attendant  facts,  they  might, 
■rhaps,  as  well  have  occupied  themselves  with  their 
^er  theme,  for  any  light  they  reflected  on  them.  Ya 
da  state  of  mind,  Captain  Cuttle  having  ttve  GrtaftL^T 


374  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

before  the  court,  and  no  one  else,  found  it  a  great  rebet 
to  decide,  generally,  that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion: 
which  the  captain  so  clearly  expressed  in  hia  yiaagfi 
that  Rob  remonstrated. 

"Oh,  don't,  captainl"  cried  the  Grinder.  "I  wonder 
how.  you  can!  What  have  I  done  to  be  looked  at,  like 
that?''' 

"My  lad,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "don't  you  sing  out 
afore  you're  hurt.  And  don't  you  commit  yourself, 
whatever  you  do." 

"I  haven't  been  and  committed  nothing,  captain," 
answered  Rob. 

"  Keep  her  free,  then,"  said  the  captain,  impressively, 
"and  ride  easy." 

With  a  deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
him,  and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this 
mysterious  affair,  as  became  a  man  in  his  relations  with 
the  parties.  Captain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  down  and  ex- 
amine the  premises,  and  to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him. 
Considering  that  youth  as  under  arrest  at  present,  the 
captain  was  in  some  doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  ex- 
pedient to  handcuff  him,  or  tie  his  ankles  together,  or 
attach  a  weight  to  his  legs,  but  not  being  clear  as  to  the 
legality  of  such  formalities,  the  captain  decided  merely 
to  hold,  him  by  the  shoulder  all  the  way,  and  knock  him 
down  if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  lie  made  note,  and  consequently  got  to  the 
Instrument-maker's  house  without  bemg  placed  under 
any  more  stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were  not 
yet  taken  down,  the  captain's  first  care  was  to  have  the 
shop  opened;  and  when  the  daylight  was  freely  ad- 
mitted, he  proceeded,  with  its  aid,  to  further  investi- 
gation. 

The  captain's  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a 
chair  in  tlie  shop,  as  president  of  the  solemn  tribunal 
that  was  sitting  within  him;  and  to  require  Rob  to  lie 
down  in  his  bed  under  the  counter,  show  exactly  where 
he  discovered  the  keys  and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how 
he  found  the  door  when  he  went  to  try  it,  how  he 
started  off  to  Brig  Place — cautiously  preventing  the 
latter  imitation  from  being  carried  farther  than  tho 
threshold — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  When 
all  this  had  been  done  several  times,  the  captain  shook 
his  bead  and  seemed  to  think  the  matter  haaa  bad  look. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  375 

t,  the  captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  finding 
r,  instituted  a  strict  search  over  the  whole  house; 
ig  in  the  cellars  with  a  lighted  candle,  thrusting 
>ok  behind  doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent 
;t  with  beams,  and  covering  himself  with  cobwebs, 
ting  up  to  the  old  man's  bedroom,  they  found  that 
d  not  been  in  bed  on  the  previous  night,  but  had 
y  lain  down  on  the  coverlet,  as  was  evident  from 
ipression  yet  remaining  there, 
id  /  think,  captain,*'  said  Rob,  looking  round  the 
"that  when  Mr,  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so 
these  last  few  days,  be  was  takmg  little  things 
piecemeal,  not  to  attract  attention." 
'! "  said  the  captain,  mysteriously.    "  Why  so,  mj 

hy,"  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  "  I  don't  see  his 
ig  tackle.      Nor  his  brushes,  captain.      Nor  no 

Nor  yet  his  shoes." 
each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned,  Captain 
I  took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  de- 
ent  of  the  Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  nave 
in  recent  use,  or  should  prove  to  be  in  present 
ision  thereof.  But  Rob  had  no  occasion  to  shave, 
nly  was  not  brushed,  and  wore  the  clothes  he  had 
for  a  long  time  past,  beyond  all  possibility  of 
^e. 

Qd  what  should  you  say,"  said  the  captain—"  not 
itting  yourself — about  his  time  of  sneering  off? 

"hy,  I  think,  captain,"  returned  Rob,  "that  he 
have  gone  pretty  soon  after  I  began  to  snore." 
"hat  oclock  was  that?"  said  the  captain,  prepared 
rery  particular  about  the  exact  time, 
ow  can  I  tell,  captain!"  answered  Roh.  "  I  only 
that  I'm  a  heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a  light  one 
ds  morning;  and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through 
op  near  daybreak,  though  ever  so  much  on  tip- 
m  pretty  sure  I  should  have  heard  him  shut  the 
it  all  events." 

mature  consideration  of  this  evidence,  Captain 
:  be^an  to  think  that  the  Instruqjent-maker  must 
v^anished  of  his  own  accord;  to  which  logical  con- 
n  he  was  assisted  by  the  letter  addressed  to  tom.- 
rhich,  as  being:  uaguestionably  in  thQ  o\4  TRaxCft 


lire  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

handwriting,  would  seem,  with  no  great  forcing,  Ui 
hear  the  construction  that  he  arranged  of  his  own  will 
to  go,  and  so  went.  The  captain  had  next  to  consider 
where  and  why  ?  and  as  there  was  no  way  whatsoever 
that  he  saw  to  the  solution  of  the  first  difficulty,  he 
confined  his  meditations  to  the  second. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  curious  manner,  and  the 
farewell  he  had  taken  of  him:  unaccountably  fervent 
at  the  time,  hut  quite  intelligible  now;  a  terrible  appre- 
hension stren^hened  on  the  captain,  that,  overpowered 
by  his  anxieties  and  regrets  for  Walter,  he  had  been 
driven  to  commit  suicide.  Unequal  to  the  wear  and 
tear  of  daily  life,  as  he  had  often  professed  himself  to 
be,  and  shaken  as  he  no  doubt  was  by  the  uncertainty 
and  deferred  hope  he  had  undergone,  it  seemed  no 
violently  strained  misgiving,  but  only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal  lib- 
erty, or  the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a 
state  of  rnadness  could  have  hurried  him  away  alone 
and  secretly?  As  to  his  carrying  some  apparel  with 
him,  if  he  had  really  done  so— and  they  were  not  even 
sure  of  that — he  might  have  done  so,  the  captain  argued, 
to  prevent  inquiry,  to  distract  attention  from  his  proba- 
ble fate,  or  to  ease  the  very  mind  that  was  now  revolving 
all  these  possibilities.  Such,  reduced  into  plain  lan- 
guage, and  condensed  within  a  small  compass,  was  the 
flnal  result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cuttle's  delibera- 
tions; which  took  a  long  time  to  arrive  at  this  pass,  and 
were,  like  some  more  public  deliberations,- very  discur- 
sive and  disorderly. 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme,  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in 
which  he  had  placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject 
to  a  kind  of  honorable  inspection  which  he  still  resolved 
to  exercise;  and  having  hired  a  man,  from  Brogley  the 
broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop  during  their  absence,  the  cap- 
tain, taking  Rob  with  him,  issued  forth  upon  a  dismal 
quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Solomon  Qills. 

Not  a  station-house,  or  bone-house,  or  work-house  in 
the  metropolis,  escaped  a  visitation  from  the  liaril 
glazed  hat.  Along  tne  wharves,  among  the  shipping, 
on  the  bank  sidt,  up  the  river,  down  the  river,  iierc, 
there,  everywhere,  it  went  gleaming  where  men  were 
thickest,  like  the  hero's  helmet  in  an  epic  battle.    For 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  377 

a  whole  week  the  captain  read  of  all  the  found  and 
missing  people  in  all  the  newepaperB  and  handbills, 
and  went  forth  on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
to  identify  Solomon  Gills,  in  poor  little  ship-bovs  w^ho 
had  fallen  overboard,  and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark 
beards  who  had  taken  poison — "  to  make  sure,"  Captain 
Cuttle  said,  "  that  it  warn't  him."  It  is  a  sure  thing 
that  it  never  was,  and  that  the  good  captain  had  no 
other  satisfaction. 

Captain  Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as 
hopeless,  and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be 
done  next.  After  several  new  perusals  of  his  poor 
friend's  letter,  he  considered  that  the  maintenance  of 
"  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter"  was  the  primary 
duty  imposed  upon  him.  Therefore,  the  captain's  deci- 
sion was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on  the  premises  of 
Solomon  Gills  himself,  and  would  go  into  the  instru- 
ment business,  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

But  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquiahment  of  his 
apartments  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  aiw  he  knew  that 
resolute  woman  would  never  hear  of  his  deserting 
them,  the  captain  took  the  desperate  determination  of 
running  away, 

"  Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme. ' '  to-morrow, 
1  shan't  be'  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night — not 
till  arter  midnight  p'raps.  But  you  keep  watch  till  you 
hear  me  knock,  and  the  moment  you  do,  turn-to,  and 
open  the  door." 

"Very  good,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

' '  You'll  continue  to  be  rated  on  these  here  books,"  pur- 
sued the  captaiii  condescendingly,  "  and  I  don't  say  Init 
what  you  may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should  pull 
together  with  a  will.  But  the  moment  you  hear  me 
knock  to-morrow  night,  whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and 
show  yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

'•  I'll  be  sure  to  do  it,  captain,"  replied  Rob. 

"Because  you  understand,"  resumed  the  captain, 
conning  back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his 
mind,  "  there  may  be,  for  anything  I  can  say,  a  chase; 
and  I  might  be  took  while  I  was  waiting,  if  you  didn't 
show  yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

Rob  again  assured  the  captain  that  he  would  be 
prompt  and  wakeful;  and  the  captain  having  madeUvi.* 


.178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

prudent  arrangement,  went  home  fo  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
tor  the  last  time. 

The  Bense  the  captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time, 
and  of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  hie  blue  waisl- 
coat,  inspired  him  with  such  a  mortal  dread  of  Mrs. 
MacStinger  that  the  sound  of  tliat  lady's  foot  dowD- 
stairs  at  anjr  time  of  the  day  was  sufficient  to  throw 
him  into  a  nt  of  trembling.  It  fell  out,  too,  that  Mrs. 
MacStinger  was  in  a  charming  temper — mild  and  placid 
as  a  house-lamb;  and  Captain  Cuttle's  conscience  suf- 
fered terrible  twinges  when  she  came  up  to  inquire  if 
she  could  cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner. 

"A  nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap'en  Cuttle," 
said  his  landlady;  "  or  a  sneep's  heart.  Don't  mind  my 
trouble." 

"  No  thaak'ee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Have  a  roast  fowl,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  with  a 
bit  of  weal  stuffing  and  sonje  egg  sauce.  Come,  Cap'en 
Cuttle!    Give  yourself  a  little  treat!" 

"No  thank'ee  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain  very 
humbly. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  out  of  sorts,  and  want  to  be  stimu- 
lated," said  Mrs.  MacStineer.  "  Why  not  have,  for 
once  in  a  way,  a  bottle  of  sherry  wine?" 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  captain,  "  if  vou'd  be  so 
good  as  take  a  glass  or  two,  I  think  I  wouwl  tr)'  that. 
Would  you  do  me  the  favor,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain, 
torn  to  pieces  by  his  conscience,  "  to  accept  a  quarter's 
rent  a-head?" 

"And  why  so,  Cap'en  Cuttle?"  retorted  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger— sharply  as  the  captain  thought. 

The  captain  was  frightened  to  death.  '"  If  you  would, 
ma'am,"  ne  said  with  submission,  "  it  would  oblige  me. 
I  can't  keep  mv  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out  I 
should  take  it  kind  if  you'd  comply." 

"Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"'  said  the  unconscious  Mac- 
Stinger, rubbmg  her  hands,  "  you  can  do  as  you  please, 
It's  not  for  me,  with  my  family,  to  refuse,  no  more  than 
it  is  to  ask." 

"And  would  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  taking 
down  the  tin  canister,  in  which  he  kept  his  cash,  from 
the  top-shelf  of  the  cupboard,  "be  so  good  as  to  offer 
eighteen-pence  a-piece  to  the  little  family  all  round? 
If  you  could  make  it  convenient,  ma'am,  to  pass  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  379 

ord  presently  for  them  children  to  come  for'ard,  in  a 
)dv,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  'em." 

These  innocent  MsicStingers  were  so  many  daggers  to 
le  captain's  breast  Tvhen  they  appeared  in  a  swarm, 
id  tore  at  him  with  the  confidmg  trustfulness  he  so 
ttle  deserved.  The  eye  of  Alexander  MacStingep,  who 
id  been  his  favorite,  >va8  insupportable  to  the  captain; 
le  voice  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  who  was  the  picture  of 
er  mother,  made  a  coward  of  him. 

Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless, 
ilerably  well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly 
*ed  and  roughly  handled  by  the  young  MacStingers: 
ho  in  their  childish  frolics,  did  a  little  damage  also  to 
le  glazed  hat,  by  sitting  in  it,  two  at  a  time,  as  in  a 
est,  and  drumming  on  tne  inside  of  the  crown  with 
leir  shoes.  At  length  the  captain  sorrowfully  dis- 
lissed  them:  talcing  leave  of  these  cherubs  with  the 
aignant  remorse  and  grief  of  a  man  who  was  going  to 
lecution. 

In  the  silence  of  night,  the  captain  packed  up  his 
eavier  property  in  a  chest,  which  ne  locked,  intending 
» leave  it  there,  in  all  probability  for  ever,  but  on  the 
>rlorn  chance  of  one  day  finding  a  man  sufficiently 
jld  and  de*sperate  to  come  and  ask  for  it.  Of  his 
ghter  necessaries,  the  captain  made  a  bundle;  and  dis- 
used his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for  flight.  At 
le  hour  of  midnight,  when  Brig  Place  was  buried  in 
umber,  and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet 
tdivion,  with  her  infants- around  her,  the  guilty  captain 
:ealin^  down  on  tiptoe,  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door, 
losed  it  softly  after  nim,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  or  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing 
lit  of  bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and 
ringing  him  back;  pursued  also  by  a  consciousness  of 
is  enormous  crime;  Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a  great 
ace,  and  allowed  no  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet,  be- 
veen  Brig  Place  and  the  Instrument-maker's  door.  It 
[>eDed  when  he  knocked — for  Rob  was  on  the  watch — 
ad  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him,  Captain 
uttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"Whew!"  cried  the  captain,  looking  around  him. 

It's  a  breather!" 

"Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  captain?"  cried  the 
aping  Rob. 


380  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"No,  do!"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changiog  color, 
and  listening  to  a  passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "  But, 
mind  ye,  my  lad;  if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them 
two  as  you  see  t'other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for 
Cap'en  Cuttle,  be  sure  to  report  no  person  of  that  name 
knowji,  nor  never  heard  of  here;  observe  them  orders, 
will  you? " 

"  1  U  take  care,  captain,"  returned  Rob. 

"You  might  say — if  you  liked,"  hesitated  the  cap- 
tain, "that  you'd  read  in  the  paper  that  a  cap'en  of 
that  name  was  gone  to  Australia,  emigrating  alone 
with  a  whole  ship's  complement  of  people  as  had  dl 
swore  never  to  come  hack  no  more." 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructioDs; 
and  Captain  Cuttle  promising  to  make  a  man  of  him  if 
he  obeyed  orders,  dismissed  nim,  yawning,  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter,  and  went  aloit  to  the  chamber  of 
Solomon  Gills. 

What  the  captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a  bon- 
net passed,  or  now  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to 
elud!e  imaginary  MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the 
attic,  cannot  be  told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attend- 
ant on  this  means  of  self-preservation,  the  captain  cur- 
tained the  glass  door  of  communication -between  the 
shop  and  parlor,  on  the  inside,  fitted  a  key  to  it  from 
the  bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him;  and  cut  a  small 
hole  of  espial  in  the  wall.  The  advantage  of  this  forti- 
fication is  obvious.  On  a  bonnet  appeanng,  the  captain 
instantly  slipped  into  his  gacrison,  locked  liimseli  up, 
and  took  a  secret  observation  of  the  enemy.  Finding 
it  a  false  alarm,  the  captain  instantly  slipped  out  again. 
And  the  bonnets  in  the  street  were  so  very  numerous, 
and  alarms  were  so  inseparable  from  their  appearance, 
that  the  captain  was  almost  incessantly  slipping  in  and 
out  all  day  long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  raidst  of 
this  fatiguing  service  to  inspect  the  stock;  in  connexion 
with  which  he  had  the  general  idea  {very  laborious  to 
Rob)  that  too  much  friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon 
it,  and  that  it  could  not  be  made  too  bright.  He  also 
ticketed  a  few  attractive  looking  articles  at  a  venture. 
at  prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty  pounds,  and 
exposed  them  in  the  window  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  the  public. 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  381 

After  effecting  these  improvements,  Captain  Cuttle, 
surrounded  by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientific: 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night,  through  the  sky- 
light, when  he  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back 
£arlor  before  going  to  bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a 
ind  of  property  in  them.  As  a  tradesman  in  the  city, 
too,  he  began  to  have  an  interest  in  the  Lord  Mayor, 
and  the  Sheriffa,  and  in  public  companies;  and  felt 
bound  to  read  the  quotations  of  the  1*  unds  every  day, 
though  he  was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principle  of 
navigation,  what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have 
very  well  dispensed  with  the  fractions.  Florence,  the 
captain  waited  on,  with  his  strange  news  of  Uncle  Sol, 
immediately  after  taking  possession  of  the  Midship- 
man; but  she  was  away  from  home.  So  the  captain  sat 
himself  down  in  his  altered  station  of  life  with  no 
company  but  Rob  the  Grinder;  and  losing  count  of 
time,  as  men  do  when  great  changes  come  upon  them, 
thought  musingly  of  Walter,  and  of  Solomon  Gills,  and 
even  of  Mrs,  MacStinger  herself,  as  among  the  things 
that  had  been. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE. 

"  Your  most  obedient,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  a  friend  of  my  friend  Dombey'a  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I'm  glad  to  see  you!" 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,"  explained  Mr,  Dom- 
bey,  "  to  Major  Bagstock  for  his  company  and  conver- 
sation. Major  Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service, 
Carker." 

Mr,  Carker  the  manager,  hat  in  hand,  just  arrived  at 
Leamington^  and  just  introduced  to  the  major,  showed 
the  major  his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted, 
he  might  take  the  liberty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his 
heart  for  having  effected  so  great  ah  improvement  in 
Mr,  Dombey's  looks  and  spirits.  ^ 

"  By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  reply,  "there  are 
no  thanks  due  to  me,  for  it's  a  give  and  talte  affair,    A 


383  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

great  creature  like  our  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  said  the 
major,  lowering  his  voice,  but  not  lowering  it  bo  much 
as  to  render  it  inaudible  to  that  gentleman,  "cannot 
help  improving  and  exalting  his  friends.  He  strength- 
ens and  invigorates  a  man,  sir,  does  Dombey,  in  his 
moral  nature. 

Mr.  Carker  snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  bad  been  on  the 
point  of  suggesting. 

"  But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  added  the  major, 
"  talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstocfc,  I  must  crave  leave  to 
set  him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir— Joey 
B. — Josh.  Bagstock— Joseph — rough  and  tough  Old  J., 
sir.     At  your  service." 

Mr.  Carker's  excessively  friendly  inclinations  towards 
the  major,  and  Mr,  Carker's  admiration  of  his  rough- 
ness, toughness,  and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every 
tooth  in  Mr.  Carker's  head. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  and  Dombev 
have  the  devil's  own  amount  of  Dusiness  to  talk  over.^ 

"  By  no  means,  major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey, 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major  defiantly,  "  I  know  better; 
a  man  of  your  mark — the  Colossus  of  commerce— is  not 
to  be  interrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We 
shall  meet  at  dinner-time.  In  the  interval  old  Joseph  will 
be  scarce.    The  dinner  hour  is  a  sharp  seven,  Mr.  Carker." 

With  that,  the  major,  greatly  swollen  as  to  his  face, 
withdrew;  but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the 
door  again,  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Dombey,  have  you  any  message 
to 'em?'' 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  with- 
out a  glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  con- 
fidence, intrusted  the  major  with  his  compliments. 

"  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  you  must  make 
it  something  warmer  than  that,  or  Old  Joe  will  be  far 
from  welcome." 

"Regards  then,  if  you  will,  major,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shaking  his  shoulders 
and  his  great  cheeks  jocularly:  "make  it  something 
warmer  than  that." 

"  What  you  please,  then,  major,"  observed  Mr.  -Dom- 
bey.   . 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  383 

"  Our  friend  is  sly  sir,  sly  sir,  de-vilish  sly,"  said  the 
major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  "  So  is  Bag- 
stock."  But  slopping  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle,  and 
drawing  himselt  up  to  his  full  height,  the  major  sol- 
emnly exdaimed,  as  he  struck  himself  on  the  chest, 
"  Dombey!  I  envy  your  feelings.  God  bless  you! "  and 
withdrew. 

"You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a  great  re- 
source," said  Carker,  following;  him  with  his  teeth. 

"  Very  great  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,"  pursued  Carker. 
"  I  perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into  so- 
ciety here.  Do  you  know,"  smiling  horribly,  "I  am  so 
verv  glad  that  you  go  into  society! 

,  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on 


very  glad  that  you  go  into  society! 

Mr,  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  0 

the  part   of  nis  second  in  command,  by  twirling  his 


wat^-chain,  and  slightly  moving  his  head. 

' '  You  were  forraea  for  society,  said  Carker.  "  Of  all 
the  men  I  know,  you  are  the  best  adapted  by  nature 
and  by  position,  for  society.  Do  you  know  I  have  been 
frequently  amazed  that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm's 
length  so  long!" 

"1  have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I  have  been  alone, 
and  indifferent  to  it.  But  you  have  great  social  qualifi- 
cations yourself,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been 
surprised." 

"  Oh!  //"  returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-dispar- 
agement. "  It's  quite  another  matter  in  the  case  of  a 
man  like  me.    I  don't  come  into  comparison  with  you." 

Hr.  Dombey  put  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  his 
chiu  in  it,  coughed,  and  stood  looking  at  his  faithful 
friend  and  servant  for  a  few  moments  m  silence. 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,"  said  Mr,  Dombey 
at  length:  making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a  little 
too  large  for  his  throat:  "to  present  you  to  my — to  the 
major's  friends.     Highly  agreeable  people." 

"Ladies  among  them,  I  presume?"  insinuated  the 
smooth  Manager. 

"  They  are  all— that  is  to  say,  they  are  both— ladies," 
replied  Mr,  Dombey. 

"Only  two?"  smiled  Carker, 

"  There  are  only  two,  I  have  confined  my  visits  to 
their  residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintance 
here." 


384  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Sisters,  perfiaps?"  quoth  Carker. 

"  Mother  and  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Dombej. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  hiB 
neckcloth  again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager  became  in  a  moment,  and  without  any  stage 
of  transition,  transformed  into  a  moBt  intent  and  frown- 
ing face,  scanning  his  closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer. 
As  Mr.  Dombey  raised  his  eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less 
quickly,  to  its  old  expression,  and  showed  him  eveiy 
gum  01  which  it  stood  possessed. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Carker.  "I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I  have 
seen  Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey'B 
face, 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her,"  said  Carker. 
"  to  inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  com- 
mission. I  am  not  BO  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of 
any  but  her — but  her  dear  love." 

Wolf's  face  that  it  was  then,  with  even  the  hot  tongue 
revealing  itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the 
eyes  encountered  Mr.  Dombey's! 

"What  business  intelligence  is  thereP"  inquired  the 
latter  gentleman,  after  a  silence,  during  which  Mr. 
Carker'  had  produced  some  memoranda  and  other 
papers. 

'•  There  is  very  little,"  returned  Carker.  "TTpon  tlie 
whole  we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of  late, 
but  that  is  of  little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd's  they 
give  up  the  Son  and  Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  was  in- 
sured from  her  keel  to  her  masthead," 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  taking  a  chair  near  him, 
"  I  cannot  say  that  young  man,  Gay,  ever  impressed 
me  favorably — " 

"  Nor  me,"  interposed  the  Manager. 

"  But  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  *'  he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I 
wish  he  had  never  been  sent  out." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so,  in  good  time,  is  it  not?" 
retorted  Carker,  coolly.  "  However,  I  think  it's  all  for 
the  best.  I  really  think  it's  all  for  the  best.  Did  I 
mention  that  there  Was  something  like  a  little  confi- 
dence between  Miss  Dombey  and  myself." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly. 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  385 

ive  no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  im- 
e  pause,  "that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much 
where  he  is  than  at  home  here.  If  I  were,  or 
>e,  in  your  place,  I  should  be  satisfied  of  that, 
uite  satisfied  of  it  myself.  Miss  Dombey  is  con- 
and  young — perhaps  hardly  proud  enough,  for 
aughter — if  sue  have  a  fault.  Not  that  that  is 
hough,  I  am  sure.  Will  you  check  these  balances 
e?" 

Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of 
^  over  the  papers  that  were  laid  before  him,  and 
the  Manager  steadily  in  the  face.  The  Manager, 
is  eyelids  slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing 
igures,  and  to  await  the  leisure  of  his  principal. 
wed  that  he  affected  this,  as  if  from  great  deli- 
nd  with  a  design  to  spare  Mr.  Dombey's  feelings; 
e  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was  cognizant  of 
inded  consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for  it,  this 
ntial  Carker  would  have  said  a  great  deal  more, 
he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It 
s  way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little,  Mr. 
y's  gaze  relased,  and  his  attention  became 
d  to  the  papers  before  him;  but  while  busy  with 
upation  tney  afforded  him,  he  frequently  stopped, 
ked  at  Mr.  Carker  again.  Whenever  he  ^id  so,  Mr. 

was  demonstrative,  as  before,  in  his  delicacy, 
pressed  it  on  bis  great  chief  more  and  more, 
e  they  were  thus  engaged;  and  under  the  skilful 

of  the  Manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference  to 
orence  brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey's  breast, 
ig  the  place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  generally 
I  there;  Major  Bagstock,  much  admired  by  the 
ies  of  Leamington,  and  followed  by  the  native, 
ig  the  usual  amount  of  light  baggage,  straddled 
;he  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make  a  morning 
1  Mrs.  Newton.  It  being  mid-day  when  the 
cached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good 
I  to  find  his  princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languish- 
■r  a  cup  of  coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and 

for  her  more  luxurious  repose  that  Withers,  who 
attendance  on  her,  loomed  like  a  phantom  page, 
lat  insupportable  creature  is  this,  coming  inl" 
•s.  Skewton.  "  I  cannot  bear  it.  Go  away,  who- 
'"»■■«■"  .IooqIc 

25-1  C> 


380  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  ma'amV 
said  the  major,  halting  midway,  to  remonBtrate,  with 
his  cane  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh  it's  you,  is  it?  On  second  thoughts  you  may 
enter,"  observed  Cleopatra, 

The  major  entered  accordingly,  and  advancing  to  the 
sofa,  pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan, 
"a  long  way  off.  Don  t  come  too-near  me,  for  I  am 
frightfully  taint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you 
smell  of  tne  sun.     You  are  absolutely  tropicS," 

"  By  George,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  the  time  has 
been  when  Joseph  Bagstock  has  been  grilled  and  blis- 
tered by  the  sun;  the  time  was,  when  ne  was  forced, 
ma'am,  into  such  full  blow,  by  high  hot-house  heat  in 
the  West  Indies,  that  he  was  known  as  the  flower.  A 
man  never  heard  of  Bagstock,  ma'am,  in  those  davs; 
he  heard  of  the  flower — the  flower  of  Our's.  "The 
flower  may  have  faded,  more  or  less,  ma'am,"  observed 
the  major,  dropping  into  a  much  nearer  chair  than  had 
been  indicated  by  his  cruel  divinity,  "but  it  is  a  tough 
plant  yet,  and  constant  as  the  evergreen." 

Here  the  major,  under  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut 
up  one  eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a  harlequin,  and,  in  his 
great  self-satisfaction,  perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  con- 
fines of  apoplexy  than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Granger?"  inquired  Cleopatra  of  her 
page. 

Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room, 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "Go  away,  and 
shut  the  door.     I  am  engaged." 

As  Withers  disappeared^  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her 
head  languidly  towards  the  major,  without  otherwise 
moving,  and  asked  him  how  his  friend  was. 

"  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  with  a  face- 
tious ^i^ling  in  his  throat,  "  is  as  well  as  a  man  in  his 
condition  co/i  be.  His  condition  is  a  desperate  one. 
ma'am.  He  is  touched,  is  Dombey.  Touched?"  cried 
the  major.     "  He  is  bayonetted  through  the  body." 

Cleopatra  cast  a  sharp  look  at  the  major,  that  con- 
trasted forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she 
presently  said: — 

"Major  Bagstock,  although  I  know  but  little  of  the 
world, — nor  can  I  really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  38? 

fear  it  is  a  false  place:  full  of  witberins:  conventional- 
ities: where  nature  is  but  little  regarded,  and  where 
the  music  of  the  heart,  and  the  gushing  of  the  soul,  and 
all  that  Bort  of  thing,  which  ia  so  truly  poetical,  is  sel- 
dom heard, — I  cannot  misunderstand  your  meaning. 
There  is  an  allusion  to  Edith^to  my  extremely  dear 
uhiJd,"  said  Mrs,  Skewton,  tracing  the  outline  of  her 
eyebrows  with  her  forefinger,  "  in  your  words,  to  which 
the  tenderest  of  chords  vibrate  excessively! " 

"  Bluntness,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  "  has  ever 
been  the  characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  You 
are  right.    Joe  admits  it." 

"And  that  allusion,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  would  in- 
volve one  of  the  most— if  positively  the  most — touching, 
and  thrilling,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our  sadly- 
fallen  nature  is  susceptible,  I  conceive. 

The  major  laid  his  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  wafted  a 
kiss  to  Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emotion  in  question, 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  weak,  I  feel  that  I  am  wanting  in 
that  energy  which  should  sustain  a  mama:  not  to  say  a 
parent:  on  such  a  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  trim- 
ming her  lips  with  the  laced  edge  of  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief; "but  I  can  hardly  approach  a  subject  so 
excessively  momentous  to  my  dearest  Edith  without  a 
feeling  of  faintness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man,  as  you 
have  boldly  remarked  upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned 
me  great  anguish:  "  Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side 
with  her  fan:  "  I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

The  major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled,  and 
swelled,  and  rolled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked, 
his  lolrater  eye,  until  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  wheezing,  which 
obliged  him  to  rise  and  take  a  turn  or  two  about  the 
room,  before  his  fair  friend  could  proceed. 

"Mr.  Dombey,"8aid  Mrs.  Skewton,  when  she  at  length 
resumed,  "  was  obliging  enough,  now  many  weeks  ago, 
to  do  us  the  honor  of  visiting  us  here;  in  company,  my 
dear  major,  with  yourself,  I  acknowledge—Jet  me  be 
open — that  it  is  my  failing  to  be  the  creature  of  impulse, 
and  to  wear  my  heart,  as  it  were,  outside.  I  know  my 
failing  full  well.  My  enemy  cannot  know  it  better. 
But  I  am  not  penitent;  I  would  rather  not  be  frozen  by 
the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  lo  bear  this  imputa- 
tion justly." 

Mrs.  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  be^  V\t5 


388  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

throat  to  give  it  a  soft  surface,  and  went  on,  with  great 
complacency. 

"  It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I  am  sure)  infinite 
pleasure  to  receive  Mr.  Dombey.  As  a  friend  of  youre, 
my  dear  major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  I>e  pre- 
possessed in  nis  favor;  and  I  fancied  that  I  observeaan 
amount  of  heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  that  was  excessively 
refreshing," 

"  There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now,  ma'am," 
said  the  major. 

"Wretched  man!"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at 
him  languidly,  "pray  be  silent." 

"J.  B.  is  dumb,  ma'am,"  said  the  major. 

"Mr.  Dombey,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the 
rosy  hue  upon  her  cheeks,  "accordingly  repeated  his 
visit;  and  possibly  finding  some  attraction  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  primitiveness  of  our  tastes — for  there  is  al- 
ways a  charm  in  nature — it  is  so  very  sweet — became 
one  of  our  little  circle  every  evening.  Little  did  I  think 
of  the  awful  responsibility  into  which  I  plunged  when  I 
encouraged  Mr,  Dombey — to — " 

"  To  beat  up  these  quarters,  ma'am,"  suggested  Major 
Bagstock. 

"  Coarse  person! "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you  anticipate 
my  meaning,  though  in  odious  language." 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little  table 
at  her  side.and  suffering  her  wrist  to  droop  in  what  she 
considered  a  graceful  and  becoming  manner,  dangled 
her  fan  to  ana  fro,  and  lazily  admired  her  hand  while 
speaking. 

"The  agony  I  have  endured,"  she  said  •mincingly, 
"  as  the  truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  feen 
too  exceedingly  terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  exist- 
ence is  bound  up  in  my  sweetest  Edith;  and  to  see  her 
change  from  day  to  day — my  beautiful  pet,  who  has 
positively  garnered  up  her  heart  since  the  death  of  that 
most  delightful  creature.  Granger — is  the  most  affecting 
thing  in  tne  world." 

Mrs.  Skewton's  world  was  not  a  very  trying  one,  if 
one  might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affect- 
ing circumstance  upon  ner;  but  this  by  the  way, 

Edith,"  simpered  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  who  is  the  perfect 
pearl  of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me,  I  believe  we 
are  alike," 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  389 

"  Th^re  's  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  admit 
:hat  any  one  resembles  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  major; 
^and  that  man's  name  is  old  Joe  Basstock," 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she  would  orain  the  flatterer 
(rith  her  fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  pro- 
seeded: 

"  If  my  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from 
me,  wicked  one! ":  the  major  was  the  wicked  one:  "  she 
inherits  also  my  foolish  nature.  She  has  great  force  of 
character — mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense,  though  I 
don't  believe  it — but  once  moved,  she  is  susceptible  and 
sensitive  to  the  last  extent.  What  are  my  feelings 
when  I  see  her  pining!    They  destroy  me."   - 

The  major  advancing  his  Qouble  chin,  and  pursing  up 
his  blue  lips  into  a  soothing  expression,  affected  the 
profoundest  sympathy. 

"The  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "that  has  sub- 
sisted between  us — the  free  development  of  soul,  and 
openness  of  sentiment — is  touching  to  think  of.  We 
have  been  more  like  sisters  than  mama  and  child." 

"J.  B.'s  own  sentiment,"  observed  the  major,  "ex- 
pressed by  J.  B.  fifty  thousand  times! " 

"  Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man!  "said  Cleopatra.  "What 
are  my  feelings,  tneu,  when  I  find  that  there  is  one  sub- 
ject avoided  by  us!  That  there  is  a  what's  his  name — 
a  gulf— opened  between  us.  That  my  own  artless  Edith 
is  changed  to  me!  They  are  of  the  most  poignant  de- 
scription, of  course." 

The  major  left  his  chair,  and  took  one  nearer  to  the 
little  table. 

"  From  day  to  day  I  see  this,  my  dear  major,"  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Skewton.  "From  day  to  day  I  feel  this. 
From  hour  to  hour  I  reproach  myself  for  that  excels 
of  faith  and  trustfulness  which  has  led  to  such  distress- 
ing  consequences;  and  almost  from  minute  to  minute. 
I  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  may  explain  himself,  and  re- 
lieve the  torture  I  undergo,  which  is  extremely  wear- 
ing. But  nothing  happens,  my  dear  major;  I  am  the 
slave  of  remorse — take  care  of  the  coffee  cup:  vou  are 
so  very  awkward — my  darUng  Edith  is  an  altered  being; 
and  I  really  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done,  or  what  good 
creature  I  can  advise  with." 

Major  Bagstbck,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  softened 
and  confidential  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewtoft,  cAW\ 


300  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

several  times  lapsing  into  it  for  a  moment,  seemed  now 
to  have  subsided  for  good:  stretched  out  his  hand  across 
the  Utile  table,  and  said  with  a  leer, 

"  Advise  with  Joe,  ma'ajn." 

"  Then,  you  aggravating  monster,"  said  Cleopatra, 
fjfiving  one  hand  to  the  major,  and  tapping  his  knuckles 
with  her  fan,  which  she  held  in  the  other:  "  why  don't 
you  talk  to  me?  You  know  what  I  mean.  Why  don't 
You  tell  me  something  to  the  purpose?" 

The  major  laughed,  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  be- 
stowed upon  him,  and  laughed  ^ain.  immensely. 

"Is  there  as  much  Heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I  gave 
him  credit  for?  "  languished  Cleopatra  tenderly,  "  Do 
you  think  he  is  in  earnest,  my  dear  major?  Would 
you  recommend  his  being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  lefl 
alone?  Now  tell  me,  like  a  dear  man,  what  you  would 
advise?  " 

"Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am?" 
chuckled  the  major  hoarsely. 

"  Mysterious  creature?  "  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing 
her  fan  to  bear  upon  the  major's  nose.  "  How  can  wv 
marry  him?" 

"Snail  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am,  1 
say,"  chuckled  the  major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but  smiled 
upon  the  major  with  so  much  archness  and  vivacity, 
that  that  gallant  officer  considerine  himself  challenged, 
would  have  imprinted  a  kiss  on  ner  exceedingly  red 
lips,  but  for  her  interposing  the  fan  with  a  very  winning 
and  juvenile  dexterity.  It  might  have  been  in  modesty; 
it  might  have  been  in  apprehension  of  some  danger  to 
their  oloom. 

"  Dombey,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  is  a  great  catch." 

"Oh.  mercenary  wretch!"  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a 
little  shriek,  "  I  am  shocked," 

"  And  Dombev,  ma'am,"  pursued  the  major,  thrusting 
forward  his  head,  and  distending  his  eyes,  "  is  in  earnest 
Joseph  says  it;  Bagstock  knows  it;  J.  B.  keeps  him  to 
the  mark.  Leave  Dombey  to  himself,  ma'am.  Dombey 
is  safe,  ma'am.  Do  as  you  have  done;  do  no  more;  and 
trust  to  J.  B,  tor  the  end." 

"  You  really  think  so,  my  dear  major?  "  returned  Cle- 
opatra, who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously,  and  very 
searchingly,  in  spite  of  her  lietless  hearing. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  391 

"  Sure  of  it,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  major.  "  Cleopatra, 
the  peerless,  and  her  Antony  Bagstock,  will  often  speak 
of  tnis,  triumphantly,  when  sharing  the  elegance  and 
wealth  of  Edith  Domboy's  establishment.  Dombey'e 
right-hand  man,  ma'am,  said  the  major,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly in  a  chuckle,  and  becoming  serious,  "has  arrived.'' 
"  'fhis  morning?"  said  Cleopatra. 

"  This  morning,  ma'am,"'  returned  the  major.  "  And 
Dombey's  anxiety  for  his  arrival,  ma'am,  is  to  be  rt'- 
ferred — take  J.  B.'s  word  for  this;  for  Joe  is  de-vilish 
sly  " — the  major  tapped  his  nose,  and  screwed  up  one 
of  his  eyes  tight:  which  did  not  enhance  his  native 
beauty—"  to  his  desire  that  what  is  in  the  wind  should 
become  known  to  him,  without  Dombey's  telling  and 
consntting  him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  ma'am,  said 
the  major,  "as  Lucifer." 

"A  charming  quality,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton;  "re- 
minding one  of  dearest  Edith.'     ' 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  '■  I  have  thrown  out 
hints  already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands  'em; 
and  I'll  throw  out  more  before  the  day  is  done.  Dombey 
projected  this  morning  a  ride  to  Warwick  Castle,  and 
to  iCenil worth,  to-morrow,  to  be  preceded  by  a  breakfast 
with  us,  I  undertook  the  delivery  of  this  invitation. 
Will  you  honor  us  so  far,  ma'am?"  said  the  major. 
swelling  with  shortness  of  breath  and  slyness,  as  he 
produced  a  note,  addressed  to  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  by  favor  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers  ever 
faithfully,  Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her  araialilo 
and  accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the  proposed 
excursion;  and  in  apostscript  unto  which,  the  same  ever 
faithfully,  Paul  Dombey,  entreated  to  be  recalled  to  the 
remembrance  of  Mrs.  Granger. 
"Hush!"  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "Edith!" 
The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  resum- 
ing her  insipid  and  affected  air  when  she  made  this  ex- 
clamation; for  she  had  never  cast  it  off;  nor  was  it  likely 
that  she  ever  would  or  could,  in  any  other  place  than  in 
the  grave.  But  hurriedly  dismissing  whatever  sliadow 
of  earnestness,  or  faint  confession  of  a  purpose,  laud- 
able or  wicked,  that  her  face,  or  voice,  or,  manner, 
had,  for  the  moment,  betrayed,  she  lounge{l  upon  the 
couch,  her  most  insipid  and  most  languid  self  again,  aa 
Edith  entered  the  room. 


30-i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and  stately,  but  so  cold  and  bo  re- 

Belling,  Who,  slightly  acknowledging  the  presenceol 
iajor  Bagstock,  and  directing  a  keen  glance  at  her 
mother,  drew  back  the  curtain  from  a  window,  and  »at 
down  there,  looking  out. 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  on 
earth  have  you  been?  I  have  wanted  you,  my  love,  most 
sadly. " 

"  You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I  stayed  away," 
she  answered,  without  turnmg  her  head. 

"  It  was  cruel  to  Old  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major  in 
his  gallantry. 

"  It  was  very  cruel,  I  know,"  she  said,  still  looking 
out — and  said  with  such  calm  disdain  that  the  major 
was  discomfited,  and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 

"Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,"  drawled  "her 
mother,  "who  is  generally  the  most  useless  and  disa- 
greeable creature  in  the  world:  as  you  know — " 

"  It  is  surely  not  worth  while,  mama,"  said  Edith, 
looking  round,  "to  observe  these  forms  of  speech.  We 
are  quite  alone.     We  know  each  other." 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face— a 
scorn  that  evidently  lighted  on  herself,  no  less  than 
them — was  so  intense  aiid  deep,  that  her  mother's 
simper,  for  the  instant,  though  of  a  hardy  constitution, 
drooped  before  it. 

"  My  darling  girl,"  she  began  again. 

"  Not  woman  yet?"  said  tdith,  with  a  smile, 

"  How  very  oad  you  are  to-day,  my  dear!  Pray  let  me 
say,  my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  the  kind- 
est of  notes  from  Jlr.  Domhey,  proposing  that  we  should 
breakfast  with  him  to-morrow,  and  nde  to  Warwick 
and  Kenilworth.     Will  you  go,  Edith?  " 

"Will  I  gol "  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and 
breathing  quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

"I  knew  you  would,  my  own,"  observed  the  latter 
carelessly.  "  It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a  form  to  ask. 
Here  is  Mr.  Dombey's  letter,  Eaith." 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  no  desire  to  read  it,"  was  her  an- 
swer. 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  answer  it  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  "though  I  had  thought  of  asking  yoK 
to  be  my  secretary,  darling."  As  Edith  made  no  move- 
ment and  no  answer,  Mrs,  tikcwton  be^ed  the  majorto 


nOMBEY  AND  SON.  .W.I 

■wheel  her  little  table  nearer,  and  to  set  open  the  desk  it 
contained,  and  to  take  out  pen  and  paj^r  for  her;  all 
■which  congenial  offices  of  gallantry  the  major  dis- 
charged ■witli  much  submission  and  devotion. 

'*  Your  regards,  Edith,  iny  dear? "  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
pausing,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

"  "What  you  will,  mama,"  she  answered,  without  turn- 
ing her  head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  she  would,  without  seeking 
for  any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter 
to  the  major,  who  receiving  it  as  a  precious  chai'ge, 
made  a  show  of  laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain  to 
put  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  pantaloons  on  account  of  the 
msecurity  of  his  waistcoat.  The  major  then  took  a  very 
l>olished  and  chivalrous  farewell  of  both  ladies,  which 
the  elder  one  acknowledged  in  her  usual  manner,  while 
the  younger,  sitting  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  win- 
dow, bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it  would  have  been  a 
greater  compliment  to  the  major  to  have  made  no  sign 
at  all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infer  that  he  had  not  be(?n 
heard  or  thought  of. 

"  As  toalteration  in  her,  sir,"  mused  the  major  on  his 
way  back;  on  which  expedition — the  afternoon  being 
sunny  and  hot— he  ordered  the  native  and  the  light  bag- 
gfige  to  the  front,  and  walked  in  the  shadow  of  that  ex- 
patriated prince:  "as  to  alteration,  sir,  and  pining,  and 
so  forth,  that  won't  go  down  with  Joseph  Bagstock. 
None  of  that,  sir.  It  won't  do  here.  But  as  to  there 
being  something  of  a  division  between  'em — or  a  gulf 
as  the  mother  calls  it — damme,  sir,  that  seems  true 
enough.  And  it's  odd  enough!  Well,  sir! "  panted  the 
major,  "  Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are  well  matched; 
let  'em  fight  it  out!    Bagstock  backs  the  winner! " 

The  major,  by  saying  these  latter  words  aloud,  in  the 
vigor  of  his  thoughts,  caused  the  unhappy  native  to  stop 
and  turn  round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  personally 
addressed.  Exasperated  to  the  last  degree  by  this  act 
of  insubordination,  the  major  (though  he  was  swelling 
with  enjoyment  of  his  own  humor  at  the  moment  of  its 
occurrence)  instantly  thrust  his  cane  among  the  native's 
ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up  at  short  nitervals,  all 
the  way  to  the  hotel. 

Nor  was  the  major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for 
dinner,  during  which  operation  the  dark  seraaw^  ■o.uA.t>"t- 


la 


.'!94  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

went  the  pelting  of  a  shower  of  miscellaneous  objecte, 
varying  in  size  from  a  boot  to  a  hairbrush,  and  includ- 
ing everything  that  came  within  his  master's  reach. 
For  the  major  plumed  himself  on  having  the  native  ina 

ferfect  state  of  drill,  and  visited  the  least  departure 
rom  strict  discipline  with  this  kind  of  fatigue  dutj. 
Add  to  this  that  he  maintained  the  native  about  bis 
person  as  a  counter-irritant  against  the  gout,  and  all 
other  vexations,  mental  as  well  as  bodily;  and  the  native 
would  appear  to  have  earned  his  pay — which  was  nol 
large. 

At  length  the  major  having  disposed  of  all  the  migsiles 
that  were  convenient  to  his  liana,  and  having  called  the 
native  so  many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him 
^reat  occasion  to  marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  English 
language,  submitted  to  have  his  cravat  put  on;  and 
being  dressed,  and  finding  himself  in  a  brisk  flow  of 
spirits  after  this  exercise,  went  down-stairs  to  enliveD 
"Dombey"  and  his  right-hand  man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand 
man  was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual- 
ready  for  the  major. 

"  Well,  sir! "  said  the  major.  "  How  have  you  passed 
the  time  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you! 
Have  you  walked  at  all  I'" 

'■  A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour's  duration,"  re- 
turned Carker.     "  We  have  been  so  much  occupied." 

"Business,  eh?"'  said  the  major. 

"A  variety  of  little  matters  necessary  to  be  gow 
through,"  replied  Carker.  "  But  do  you  know — this  is 
quite  unusual  with  me.  educated  in  a  distrustful  school, 
and  who  am  not  generallv  disposed  to  I>e  commuuics- 
tivo,"  lie  said,  breaking  off,  and  speaking  in  a  chamiinK 
t<ine  of  frankness — '"but  I  feel  quite  confidential  with 
you.  Major  Bagstock." 

"You  do  me  honor,  sir,"  returned  tlie  major,  "You 
may  be." 

"  Do  you  know,  then."  pursued  Carker,  "  that  I  have 
not  found  my  friend — our  friend,  I  ought  rather  to  call 
him — " 

"  Meaning  Dombey,  sir?"'  cried  the  major.  "  You  see 
me.  Mr.  Carker,  standing  here!  J.  B.  ?" 

He  was  jmffy  enough  to  see.  and  blue  enough;  an'' 
Mr.  Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3!»5 

"  Then  you  see  a  man,  sir,  who  would  go  through  fire 

and  water  to  serve  Dombey,"  returned  Major  Bagstock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  wjis  sure  of  it.     "Do 

{'ou  know,  major,"  he  proceeded:  "to  resume  where  I 
eft  off:  that  I  have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  to 
business  to-day,  as  usual?" 

"No?"  observed  the  delighted  major. 

"I  have  found  him  a  little  abstracted,  and  with  his 
attention  disposed  to  wander,"  said  Carker. 

*'  By  Jove,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  "  there's  a  lady  in  the 
case. 

"Indeed,  I  begin  to  believe  there  really  is,"  returned 
Carker.  "  T  thought  you  might  be  jestmg  when  you 
seemed  to  hint  at  it;  for  I  know  you  military  men — 

The  major  gave  the  horse's  cough,  and  shook  his  head 
and  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Weill  we  are  gay 
dogs,  there's  no  denying."  He  then  seized  Mr.  Carker 
by  the  button-hole,  and  with  starting  eyes  whispered 
in  his  ear  that  she  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary  charms, 
sir.  That  she  was  a  young  widow,  sir.  That  she  was 
of  a  fine  family,  sir.  That  Dombey  was  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  her,  sir,  and  that  it  would  be  a  good 
match  on  both  sides;  for  she  had  beauty,  blood,  and 
talent,  and  Dombey  had  fortune;  and  what  more  could 
any  couple  have?  Hearing  Mr,  Dombey's  footsteps  with- 
out, the  major  cut  himself  short  by  saying,  that  Mr. 
Carker  would  see  her  to-morrow  morning,  and  would 
judjge  for  himself;  and  between  his  mental  excitement, 
ana  the  exertion  of  saying  all  this  in  wheezy  whispers, 
the  major  sat  gurgling  in  the  throat  and  watering  at  the 
eyes,  until  dinner  was  ready. 

The  major,  like  some  other  noble  animals,  exhibited 
himself  to  great  advantage  at  feeding  time.  On  this  occa- 
sion, he  shone  resplendent  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
supported  by  the  milder  lustre  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  the 
other;  while  Carker  on  one  side  lent  his  ray  to  either 
lirfit,  or  suffered  it  to  merge  into  both,  as  occasion  arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  major  was  usually 
grave:  for  the  native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders. 
secretly  issued,  collefrted  every  sauce  and  cruet  round 
him,  and  gave  him  a  great  deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  the 
stoppers,  and  mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  plate.  Be- 
sides which,  the  natives  had  private  zests  and  flavors 
on  a  side-table,  with  which  the  major  da\l^  &c.otOn.feft. 


396  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

himself;  to  say  nothing  of  strange  machines  out  of 
wliich  he  spirted  unknown  liquids  iuto  the  major's 
drink.  But  on  this  occasion,  Major  Bagetock,  even 
amidst  these  many  occupations,  found  time  to  be  Bocial: 
and  his  sociality  consisted  in  excessive  slyness  for  the 
behoof  of  Mr,  Carker,  and  the  betrayal  of  Mr.  Dombej's 
state  of  mind. 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "you  don't  eat;  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  "I  am  do- 
ing very  well;  I  have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

"Why,  Dombey,  what's  become  of  it?"  a^ked  tlic 
major.  "  Where's  it  gone?  You  haven't  left  it  with  our 
friends,  I'll  swear,  for  I  can  answer  for  their  haviu^ 
none  to-day  at  luncheon,  I  can  answer  for  one  of  'ciii. 
at  least;  I  won't  say  which." 

Then  the  major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so 
frightfully  sly,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to 
pat  him  on  the  back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  prob- 
ably have  disappeared  under  the  table. 

In  a  later  stage  of  the  dinner:  that  is  to  say,  when  the 
native  stood  at  the  major's  elbow  ready  to  serve  the 
first  bottle  of  champagne:  the  major  became  still  slyer, 

"  Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  major, 
holding  up  his  glass.  "  Fill  Mr.  Carker's  to  the  briin 
too.  And  Mr.  Dombey's  too.  By  Gad,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  major,  winking  at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr.  Dom- 
bey looked  into  his  plate  with  a  conscious  air,  "we'll 
consecrate  this  glass  of  wine  to  a  divinity  whom  Joe  is 
proud  to  know,  and  at  a  distance  humbly  and  rev- 
erently to  admire.  Edith,"  said  the  major,  "is  her 
name;  angelic  Edith! " 

"  To  angelic  Edith!"  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

"  Edith,  by  all  means,''  said  Mr.  Domoey. 

The  entrance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  causeii 
the  major  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a  more  serious  vein. 
"  For  though,  among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles 
jest  and  earnest  on  this  subject,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  speaking  half  apart 
to  Carker,  "he  holds  that  name  too  sacred  to  be  made 
the  property  of  these  fellows,  or  of  any  fellows.  Not  a 
word,  sir,  while  they  are  here! " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoraing  on  the  major's  part, 
and   Mr.   Dombey  plainly  felt   it  so.       Although  em- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  307 

ttairassed  in  his  own  frigid  way,  by  the  major's  allu- 
itons,  Mr.  Dombey  had  no  objection  to  such  rallying,  it 
was  clear,  but  rather  courted  it.  Perhaps  the  major 
lad  been  pretty  near  the  truth,  when  he  had  divined 
;hat  morning  that  the  great  man  who  was  too  haughty 
■ormerly  to  consult  with,  or  confide  in  his  prime  minis- 
«r,  on  such  a  matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be  fully  pos- 
sessed of  it.  Let  this  be  how  it  may,  he  often  glanced 
it  Mr.  Carker  while  the  major  plied  his  light  artillery, 
md  seemed  watchful  of  its  effect  upon  him. 

But  the  major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener, 
ind  a  smiler  who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world — 
'  iu  short,  a  de-vilish  intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow," 
is  he  often  afterwards  declared— was  not  Koing  to  let 
lim  off  with  a  little  slyness  personal  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
Therefore,  on  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  the  major  de- 
/eloped  himself  as  a  choice  spirit  in  the  broader  and 
nore  comprehensive  range  of  narrating  regimental 
itories,  and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he  did  with 
luch  prodigal  exuberance,  that  Carker  was  (or  feigned 
;o  be)  quite  exhausted  with  laughter  and  admiration: 
while  Mr,  Dombey  looked  on  over  hia  starched  cravat, 
ike  the  major's  proprietor,  or  like  a  stately  showman 
who  was  glad  to  see  his  bear  dancing  well. 

"When  the  major  waa  too  hoarse  with  meat  and  drink 
ind  the  display  of  his  social  powers  to  render  himself 
intelligible  any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After 
which,  tlie  major  inquired  of  Air.  Carker  the  manager, 
with  little  apparent  hope  of  an  answer  in  the  afiSnna- 
tive,  if  he  played  picquet. 

"  Yes,  I  play  picquet  a  little,"  said  Mr,  Carker. 

"Backgammon,  perhaps?"  observed  the  major  hesi- 
tating. 

"Yes,  I  play  backgaiomon  a  little  too,"  replied  the 
man  of  teeth. 

"Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I  believe," said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, laying  himself  on  a  sofa  like  a  man  of  wood  with- 
out a  hinge  or  a  joint  in  him;  "  and  plays  them  well," 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  question,  to  such  per- 
fection, that  the  major  was  astonisned,  and  asked  him, 
at  random,  if  he  played  chess. 

"Yes,  I  play  chess  a  little,"  answered  Carker.  "I 
have  sometimes  played,  and  won  a  game — it's  a  mere 
trick — without  seeing  the  board," 


398  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"By  Gad,  sir!"  said  the  major,  staring,  "  you're  a  con- 
trast to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing." 

"Oh!  He!  returned  the  manager,  ife  has  never  had 
occasion  to  acq^uire  auch  little  arts.  To  men  like  me, 
they  are  sometimes  useful.  As  at  present.  Major  Bag- 
fltock,  when  they  enable  me  to  take  a  hand  with  tou." 

It  might  be  only  the  false  mouth,  bo  smooth  ana  wide; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and 
subserviency  of  this  short  speech  a  something  like  a 
snarl;  and  for  a  moment,  one  might  have  thought  tbal 
the  white  teeth  were  prone  to  bite  the  hand  they  fawned 
upon.  But  the  major  thought  uothing  about  it;  and  Hr. 
Dombey  lay  meditating  with  his  eyes  half  abut,  during 
the  whole  of  the  play,  which  lasted  until  bedtime. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had 
mounted  high  into  the  major's  good  opinion,  insomuch, 
that  when  he  left  the  major  at  his  own  room  before  go- 
ing to  bed,  the  major,  as  a  special  attention,  sent  the 
native — who  always  rested  on  a  mattress  spread  upon 
the  ground  at  his  masters  door — along  the  gallery,  to 
light  him  to  his  room  in  state. 

There  was  a  faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror  id 
Mr.  Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps, 
a  false  one.  But  it  showed,  that  night,  the  image  of  a 
man,  who  saw,  in  his  fancy,  a  crowd  of  people  slumber- 
ing on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  like  the  poor  native  at  bis 
master's  door:  who  picked  his  way  among  them:  look- 
ing down  maliciously  enough:  but  trod  upon  no  up- 
turned face— as  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DEEPER  SHADOWS.  ^ 

Mk,  Cabker  the  manager  rose  with  the  lark,  and  we*A 
out,  walkingin  the  summer  day.  His  meditations— at*j, 
he  meditated  with  contracted  brows  while  he  strolls™ 
along — hardly  seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  i^ 
mount  in  that  direction;  rather  they  kept  close  to  the^ 
nest  upon  the  earth,  and  looked  about,  among  the  du^ 
and  worms.    But  there  was  not  a  bird  in  the  air,  sing^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  390 

ng  unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach  of  human  eye  than 
k£r.  Carker's  thoughts.  He  had  his  face  so  perfectly 
inder  control  that  few  could  say  more,  in  distinct  terms, 
if  its  expression  than  that  it  smiled  or  that  it  pondered. 
t  pondered  now,  intently.  As  the  lark  rose  higher,  he 
ank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark  poured  out  her 
nelody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell  into  a  gra^r  and 
irofounder  silence.  At  length,  when  the  larVcame 
leadlong  down,  with  an  accumulating  stream  of  song, 
Md  dropped  among  the  green  wheat  near  him,  rippling 
n  the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a  river,  he  sprang  up 
rom  his  reverie,  and  looked  round  with  a  sudden  smile, 
«  courteous  and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous  ob- 
ervers  to  propitiate;  nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being 
hus  awakenea;  but  clearing  his  face,  like  one  who  be- 
bought  himself  that  it  might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell 
ales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if  for  practice. 

Perhaps  with  an  eye  to  first  impressions,  Mr,  Carker 
vas  very  carefully  and  trimly  dressed,  that  morning, 
'hough  always  somewhat  formal  in  his  dress,  in  imita- 
ion  of  the  great  man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short 
if  the  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey's  stiffness:  at  once,  perhaps, 
tecause  he  knew  it  to  be  ludicrous,  and  because  in  do- 
ng  so  he  found  another  means  of  expressing  his  sense 
if  the  difference  and  distance  between  them.  Some 
teople  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this  respect,  as  a  pointed 
ommentary,  and  not  a  flattering  one,  on  his  icy  patron 
—but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruction,  and  Mr. 
!7arker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  propensity. 

Clean  and  florid:  with  his  light  complexion,  fading  as 
t  were,  in  the  sun,  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the 
oftoess  of  the  turf:  Mr.  Oarker  the  manager  strolled 
ibout  meadows,  and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among 
ivenues  of  trees,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to  break- 
ast.  Taking  a  nearer  way  back,  Mr.  Carker  pursued 
t,  airing  his  teeth,  and  said  aloud  as  he  did  so,  "  Now 

0  see  the  second  Mrs.  Dombey!" 

He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  re-entered  it  by 

1  pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a  deep  shade  of  leafy 
rees,  and  where  there  were  a  few  benches  here  and 
here  for  those  who  chose  to  rest.  It  not  being  a  place 
•f  general  resort  at  any  hour,  and  wearing  at  that  time 
if  the  still  morning  the  air  of  being  quite  deserted  and 
etired,  Mr.  Carker  had  it,  or  thought  he  had  it,  all  to 


400  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

himself.  So,  with  the  whim  of  an  idle  man,  to  whom 
there  yet  remained  twenty  minutes  for  reaching  a  des- 
tination easily  accessible  in  ten,  Mr.  Carker  threaded 
the  great  boles  of  the  trees,  and  went  passingin  and  out, 
before  this  one  and  behind  that,  weaving  a  chain  of 
footsteps  on  the  dewy  ground. 

But  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  was 
no  o»  in  the  grove,  for,  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk 
of  one  large  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was 
knotted  and  overlapped  like  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  or 
some  kindred  monster  of  the  ancient  days  before  the 
flood,  he  saw  an  unexpected  figure  sitting  on  a  bench 
near  at  hand,  about  which,  in  another  moment,  he 
would  have  wound  the  chain  be  was  making. 

It  was  that  of  a  lady,  elegantly  dressed  and  very 
handsome,  whose  dark  proud  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  and  in  whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was 
raging.  For  as  she  sat  looking  down,  she  held  a  comer 
of  her  under  lip  within  her  mouth,  her  bosom  heaved, 
her  nostril  quivered,  her  head  trembled,  indignant  teais 
were  on  her  cheek,  and  her  foot  was  set  upon  the  moss 
as  though  she  would  have  crushed  it  into  nothing.  And 
yet  almost  the  self-same  glance  that  showed  him  this, 
showed  him  the  self-same  lady  rising  with  a  scornful 
air  of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and  turning  away  with 
nothing  expressed  in  face  or  figure  but  careless  beauty 
and  imperious  disdain. 

A  withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so 
much  like  a  gipsy  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of 
vagabonds  who  tramp  about  the  country  begging,  and 
stealing  and  tinkering,  and  weavine  rushes,  by  turns. 
or  ail  together,  had  been  observing  the  lady  too;  for,  as 
she  rose,  this  second  figure,  strangely  confronting  the 
first,  scrambled  up  from  the  ground — out  of  it,  it  almost 
appeared — and  stood  in  the  way. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,"  said  the 
old  woman,  munching  with  her  jaws  as  if  the  Death's 
head  beneath  her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get 
out. 

"  I  can  tell  it  for  mvself,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady;  but  not  right.  You  didn't  tell 
it  right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I  see  you!  Give 
me  apiece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I'll  tell  your  for- 
tune true.    There's  riches,  pretty  lady,  in  your  face." 


BOMBEY  AND  SON.  401 

"  I  know,"  returned  the  lady,  passin^^  her  with  a  dark 
BDiile,  and  a  proud  step.     "  I  knew  it  before." 

"What!  You  won't  give  me  nothing? "  cried  the  old 
woman,  "  You  won't  give  nothing  to  tell  your  fortune, 
pretty  lady?  How  much  will  you  give  me  not  to  tell  it, 
then?  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after  you!" 
croaked  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close, 
slinking  against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the 
path,  advanced  so  as  to  meet  her,  and  pulling  off  his 
hat  as  she  went  by,  bade  the  old  woman  hold  her  peace. 
The  lady  acknowledged  his  interference  with  an  incli- 
nation of  the  head,  and  went  her  way. 

"You  give  me  something  then,  or  I'll  call  it  after 
her! "  screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arms, 
ind  pressing  forward  against  his  outstretched  hand. 
■'  Or  come,"  she  added,  dropping  her  voice  suddenly, 
looking  at  him  earnestly,  and  seeming  in  a  moment  to 
forget  the  object  of  her  wrath,  "give  me  something,  or 
(  'llcall  it  after  wow.'" 

"  After  me,  old  lady?"  returned  the  manager,  putting 
^is  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and 
holding  out  her  shrivelled  hand.     "  I  know! " 

"  What  do  you  know?"  demanded  Carker,  throwing 
her  a  shilling.     "Do  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady 

Munching  like  that  sailor's  wife  of  yore,  who  had 
chestnuts  in  her  lap,  and  scowling  like  the  witch  who 
nsked  for  some  in  vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shil- 
ling up,  and  going  backwards,  like  a  crab,  or  like  a  heap 
of  crabs:  for  her  alternately  expanding  and  contract- 
ing hands  might  have  represented  two  of  that  species, 
and  her  creepmg  face,  some  half-a-dozen  more:  crouched 
on  the  veinouB  root  of  an  old  tree,  pulled  out  a  short 
black  pipe  from  within  the  crown  of  her  bonnet,  lighted 
it  with  a  match,  and  smoked  in  silence,  looking  fixedly 
at  her  questioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Good! "  said  tne  old  woman.  "  One  child  dead,  and 
one  child  living:  one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming. 
Go  and  meet  her! " 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  manager  looked  round  again, 
and  stopped.    The  old  woman,  who"  had  not  reiTvo'^<i«\ 


40i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

her  pipe,  and  was  munching  and  mtunbling  while  she 
smoked,  as  if  in  converaatioii  with  an  invisible  familiar, 
pointed  with  her  finger  in  the  direction  he  was  goiDg, 
and  laughed. 

"  What  was  that  you  said,  Beldamite?  "  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled,  and  chattered,  and  smoked, 
and  still  pointed  before  him;  but  remained  silent.  Mut- 
tering a  farewell  that  was  not  complimentary,  Mr. 
Carker  pursued  his  way;  but  as  he  turned  out  of  thai 
place,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  root  of  th*^ 
old  tree,  he  could  yet  see  the  finger  pointing  before  him. 
and  thought  lie  heard  the  woman  screaming,  "Go and 
meet  her!" 

Preparations  for  a  choice  repast  were  completed,  he 
found,  at  the  hotel;  and  Mr.  Dorabev,  and  the  major, 
and  the  breakfast,  were  awaiting  the  lEidies.  Individual 
constitution  has  much  to  do  with  the  development  o( 
such  facts,  no  doubt;  but  in  this  case,  appetite  carried 
it  hollow  over  the  tender  passion;  Mr.  Dombey  being 
very  cool  and  collected,  and  the  major  fretting  and 
fuming  in  a  state  of  violent  heat  and  irritation.  At 
lengtli  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  native,  and, 
after  a  pause,  occupied  by  her  languishing  along  the 
gallery,  a  very  blooming,  but  not  very  youthful  lady 
appeared. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  lady,  "I  am  afraid 
we  are  late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for 
ar  favorable  point  of  view  for  a  sketch,  and  kept  me 
waiting  for  ner.  Falsest  of  majors,"  giving  him  her 
little  finger,  "  how  do  you  do!' "' 

"Mrs,  Skewton,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  "let  me  gratify 
my  friend  Carker:"  Mr,  Dombey  unconsciously  emplia- 
sized  the  word  friend,  as  saving  "  no  really;  I  do  allow 
liim  to  take  credit  for  that  distinction; "  "  by  presentioi^ 
liim  to  you.    You  have  heard  me  mention  Mr,  Carker, 

'*  I  am  charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs,  Skewton,  gra- 
ciously, 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have 
been  more  charmed  on  Mr,  Dombey  s  behalf,  if  Mrs. 
Skewton  had  been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the 
Edith  whom  they  had  toasted  over  night? 

"Why,  where,  for  Heaven's  sake,  is  Edith?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs,  Skewton,  looking  round,  "Still  at  the 
door,  giving  Withers    orders  about  the  mounting  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  40a 

those  drawings!*  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,  will  you  have 
the  kindneBs — " 

Mr,  Dombey  was  already  gone  to  seek  her.  Next 
momeDt  he  returned,  hearing  on  his  arm  the  same  ele- 

gantly  dressed  and  very  handsome  lady  whom  Mr. 
arker  had  encountered  underneath  the  trees. 

"  Carker — "  began  Mr.  Dombey.  But  their  recogni- 
tion of  each  other  was  so  manifest,  that  Mr.  Domoey 
stopped  surprised, 

"  I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
stately  bend,  "for  sparing  me  some  annoyance  from  an 
importunate  beggar  just  now." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune,"  said  Mr,  Carker, 
bowing  low,  "  for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight 
a  service  to  one  whose  servant  I  am  proud  to  be." 

As  her  eve  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
lighted  on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  its  bright  and  search- 
ing glance  a  suspicion  that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the 
moment  of  his  mterference,  but  had  secretly  observed 
her  sooner.  As  he  saw  that,  she  saw  in  his  eye  that 
her  distrust  was  not  without  foundation. 

"Really,"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  taken  this 
opportunity  of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass, 
and  satisfying  herself  (as  she  lisped  audibly  to  the 
major)  that  he  was  all  heart;  "  really  now,  this  is  one 
of  flie  most  enchanting  coincidences  that  I  ever  heard 
of.  The  idea!  My  dearest  Edith,  there  is  such  an 
obvious  destiny  in  it,  that  really  one  might  almost  be 
induced  to  cross  one's  arms  upon  one's  frock,  and  say, 
like  those  wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What's-his-name 
but  Thingummy,  and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his 
prophet! " 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quo- 
tation from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  felt  it  necessary 
to  offer  a  few  polite  remarks. 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
cumbrous  gallantry,  "  that  a  gentleman  so  nearly  con- 
nected with  myself  as  Carker  is,  should  have  had  the 
honor  and  happiness  of  rendering  the  least  assistance  to 
Mrs.  Granger.  Mr.  Dombey.  bowed  to  her.  "But  it 
gives  me  some  pain,  and  it  occasions  me  to  be  really 
envious  of  Carter;"  he  unconsciously  laid  stress  on 
these  words,  as  sensible  that  they  must  appear  to  in- 
volve   a    very   surprising    proposition;    "eu'vioMft   ot 


404  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Carker,  that  I  had  not  that  honor  and  that  ha))piiies8 
myself."  Mr,  Domliey  howed  again.  Edith,  savlngfor 
a  curl  of  her  lip,  was  motionless, 

"Bv  the  Lord,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  bursting  into 
speech  at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  an- 
nounce breakfast,  "  it's  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me 
that  no  one  can  have  the  honor  and  happiness  of  shoot- 
ing all  such  beggars  through  the  head  without  being 
brought  to  book  for  it.  But  here's  an  arm  for  Mre, 
Granger,  if  she'll  do  J.  B,  the  honor  to  accept  it;  and 
the  greatest  service  Joe  can  render  you,  ma'am,  just 
now,  is,  to  lead  you  in  to  table!" 

With  this,  the  major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith;  Mr. 
Dombey  led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton;  Mr.  Carker 
went  last,  smiling  on  the  party. 

"I  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  lady^ 
mother,  at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of 
him  through  her  glass,  "  that  you  have  timed  your  visit 
8o  happily,  as  to  go  with  us  to-day.  It  is  the  most  en- 
chanting expedition! " 

"Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  such  so- 
ciety," returned  Carker;  "  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  itself-     1 
full  of  interest." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  faded  little  scream 
of  rapture,  "the  castle  is  charming! — associations  of  the 
middle  ages — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  exquisite. 
Don't  you  dote  upon  the  middle  ages,  Mr,  Carker?" 

"Very  much,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Such  charming  times!"  cried  Cleopatra.  "So  full 
of  faith!  So  vigorous  and  forcible!  So  picturesque! 
So  perfectly  removed  from  commonplace!  Oh  dear!  If 
they  would  only  -leave  us  a  little  more  of  the  poetiy  of 
existence  in  these  terrible  days! " 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking  sharp  after  Mr.  Dombey 
all  the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith: 
who  was  listening,  but  who  never  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

"We  are  dreadfully  real,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mis. 
Skewton;  "are  we  not?  " 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complaio  of  their 
reality  tnan  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false 
about  her  as  could  well  go  to  the  composition  of  any- 
body with  a  real  individual  existence.  But  Mr.  Carker 
commiserated  our  reality  nevertheless,  and  agreed  that 
we  were  very  hardly  used  in  that  regard. 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  405 

'•  Pictures  at  the  castle,  quite  divine! "  said  Cleopatra, 
'  I  hope  you  dote  upon  pictures?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
vith  solemn  encouragement  of  his  manager,  "that 
:^arker  has  a  very  good  taste  for  pictures;  quite  a 
latural  power  of  appreciating  them.  He  is  a  very 
reditable  artist  hinwelf.  He  wilt  be  delighted,  I  am 
lire,  with  Mrs.  Granger's  taste  and  skill." 

"Damme,  sir! "  cried  Major  Bagstock,  "my  opinion 
s,  that  you're  the  admirable  Carker,  and  can  do  any- 
liing." 

"  Oh!  "  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  "you  are  much 
DO  sanguine,  Major  Bagstock.  I  can  do  very  little, 
tut  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any 
rivial  accomplishment  a  man  like  myself  may  find  it 
Imobt  necessary  to  acquire,  and  to  wnich.  in  his  very 
ifferent  sphere,  he  is  far  superior,  that—"  Mr,  Carker 
hrugged  Eis  shoulders,  deprecating  further  praise,  and 
aid  no  more. 

All  this  time,  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to 
.'lance  towards  her  mother  when  that  lady's  fervent 
pirit  shone  forth  in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she 
x)ked  at  Mr,  Dombey  for  a  moment.  For  a  moment 
nly ;  but  with  a  transient  gleam  of  scornful  wonder  on 
ler  face,  not  lost  on  one  observer,  who  was  smiling 
ound  the  board. 

Mr,  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent, 
,nd  took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

"You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately?" 
aid  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Several  times," 

*'  The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"Oh  no;  not  at  all." 

"Ah!  You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest 
<;dith,"  said  Mrs,  Skewton.  "  He  has  been  to  Warwick 
Jastte  fifty  times,  if  he  has  been  there  once;  yet  if  he 
;ame  to  Leamin^on  to-morrow — I  wish  he  would,  dear 
ingell — he  would  make  his  fifty-second  visit  next  day. 

"  We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  mama?"  said 
Sdlth,  with  a  cold  smile, 

"Too  much  so,  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  re- 
umed  her  mother;  "  but  we  won't  complain.  Our  own 
(motions  are  our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Feenix 
ays,  the  sword  wears  out  the  what's-its-name — " 


400  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"The  scabbard,  perhaps," said  Edith. 

"Exactly — a  Httle  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright 
and  glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love." 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  casl 
a  shadow  on  the  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof 
her  susceptible  bosom  was  the  sheath:  and  leaningher 
head  on  one  side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner,  looked  with 
pensive  affection  on  her  darliug  child. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  towards  Mr.  Dombey  whcyi 
he  first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  atti- 
tude, while  speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while  her 
mother  spoke  to  her,  as  though  offering  him  her  atten- 
tion, if  he  had  anything  more  to  say.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  manner  of  this  simple  courtesy:  almost  de- 
fiant, and  giving  it  the  character  of  being  rendered  on 
compulsion,  or  as  a  matter  of  traffic  to  which  she  was 
a  reluctant  party :  again  not  lost  upon  tliat  same  observer 
who  was  smiling  round  the  boara.  It  set  him  thinkine 
of  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  she  had  beUeved 
herself  to  be  alone  among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  nothing  else  to  say,  proposed— 
the  breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  major  gorged, 
like  any  boa  constrictor— that  they  should  start.  A  ba- 
rouche oeing  in  waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of  that 
gentleman,  the  two  ladies,  the  major  and  himself,  took 
tlieir  seats  in  it;  the  native  and  the  wan  page  mounted 
the  box,  Mr,  Towlinson  being  left  behind;  and  Mr.  Car- 
ker,  on  horseback,  brought  up  the  rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during 
all  the  ride,  as  if  he  were  a  cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  oc- 
cupants, mice.  Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the 
road,  or  to  the  other— over  distant  landscape,  with  its 
smooth  undulations,  wind-mills,  corn,  grass,  bean  fields, 
wild-flowers,  farm-yards,  hay-ricks,  and  the  spire  among 
the  wood — or  upward  in  the  sunny  air,  where  butter- 
flies were  sporting  round  bis  head,  and  birds  were  pour- 
ing out  their  songs — or  downward,  where  the  shaaows 
of  the  branches  interlaced,  and  made  a  trembling  carpet 
on  the  road — or  onward,  where  the  overhanging  trees 
formed  aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened  light 
that  steeped  through  leaves — one  corner  of  his  eye  was 
ever  on  the  formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey,  addressed 
towards  him,  and  the  feather  in  the  bonnet,  droopingso 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  40? 

neglectfully  and  scornfully  between  them :  much  aa  he 
haH  seen  the  haughty  eyelids  droop;  not  least  so,  when 
the  face  met  that  now  fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only, 
did  his  wary  glance  release  these  ohjects;  and  that  was, 
when  a  leap  over  a  low  hedge,  and  a  gallop  across  a 
Seld,  enabled  him  to  anticipate  the  carnage  coming  hv 
the  road,  and  to  be  standing  ready,  at  the  journey's  ena, 
to  hand  the  ladies  out.  Then,  and  but  then,  he  met  her 
glance  for  an  instant  in  her  first  surprise;  but  when  he 
touched  her,  in  alighting,  with  his  soft  white  hand,  it 
overlooked  him  altogether  aa  before. 

Mrs,  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Car- 
ker  herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  Castle. 
She  was  determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  major's 
too.  It  would  do  that  incorrigible  creature:  who  was 
the  most  barbarous  infidel  in  point  of  poetry:  good  to  be 
in  such  company.  This  chance  arrangement  left  Mr. 
Dombey  at  liberty  to  escort  Edith:  which  he  did:  stalk- 
ing before  them  through  the  apartments  with  a  gentle- 
manly solemnity. 

"  Those  darling  bygone  times,  Mr,  Carker,"  said  Cleo- 
patra, "  with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear  old 
dungeons,  and  their  delightful  places  of  torture,  and 
their  romantic  vengeances,  and  their  picturesque  as- 
saults and  sieges,  and  everything  that  makes  life  truly 
charming!    How  dreadfully  we  have  degenerated!" 

"  Yes,  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,"  said  Mr.Car- 
ker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton,  in  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in 
spite  of  his  urhanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Edith.  With  all  their  conversational  en- 
dowments, they  spoke  somewhat  distractedly,  and  at 
random  in  consequence. 

"  We  have  no  faith  left,  positively,"  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  advancing  her  shrivelled  ear;  for  Mr.  Dombey  waa 
saying  sometning  to  Edith.  "We  have  no  faith  in 
the  dear  old  barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful  creat- 
ures— or  in  the  dear  old  priests,  who  were  the  moat  war- 
like of  men — or  even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable 
Queon  Bess,  upon  the  wall  there,  which  were  so  ex- 
tremely golden!  Dear  creature!  She  was  all  heart!  And 
that  charming  father  of  hers!  I  hope  you  dote  on  Harry 
the  Eighth!" 


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m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  aflmire  him  very  much,"  said  Carker, 

"So  bluff!"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  wasn't  he?  So 
burly.  So  truly  English.  Such  a  picture,  too,  he  makes, 
with  his  dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  beneTolenl 
chin!" 

"Ah,  ma'am!"said  Carker,  stopping  short;  "but  if 
you  speak  of  pictures,  there's  a  composition!  What 
Eallery  in  the  world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of 
that:  '^ 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spake,  he  point*il 
through  a  doorway  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith 
were  standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  another  room. 

They  were  not  interchanging  a  word  or  a  look. 
Standincf  together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appear- 
ance of  being  more  divided  than  if  seas  had  rolled  be- 
tween them.  There  was  a  difference  even  in  the  pride 
of  the  two,  that  removed  them  farther  from  each  other, 
than  if  one  had  been  the  proudest  and  the  other  the 
humblest  specimen  of  humanity,  in  all  creation.  He. 
self-important,  unbending,  formal,  austere.  She,  lovely 
and  graceful  in  an  uncommon  degree,  but  totally  re- 
gardless of  herself  and  him  and  everything  around,  and 
spurning  her  own  attractions  with  her  haughty  brow 
and  lip,  as  if  they  were  a  badge  or  livery  she  nated.  So 
unmatched  were  they,  and  opposed,  so  forced  and  linked 
together  by  a  chain  which  adverse  hazard  and  mis- 
chance had  forged :  that  fancy  might  have  imagined  the 
pictures  on  the  walls  around  them,  startled  by  the  un- 
natural conjunction,  and  observant  of  it  in  their  several 
expressions.  Grim  knights  and  warriors  looked  scowl- 
ing on  them.  A  churcnman,  with  his  hand  upraised, 
denounced  the  mockery  of  such  a  couple  coming  to 
(iod's  altar.  Quiet  waters  in  landscapes,  with  the  sun 
reflected  in  their  depths,  asked,  if  better  means  of  es- 
cape were  not  at  hand,  was  there  no  drowning  left? 
Ruins  cried,  "  Look  here,  and  see  what  We  are,  wedded 
to  uncongenial  Time!"  Animals,  opposed  by  nature, 
worried  one  another,  as  a  moral  to  them.  Loves  and 
Cupids  took  to  flight  afraid,  and  Martyrdom  had  no 
such  torment  in  its  painted  history  of  suffering. 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the 
sight  to  which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that 
she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how 
sweet,  how  very  full  of  soul  it  was!    £dith,  overhear- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  400 

Uii^,  looked  round,  and  flushed  indignant  scarlet  to  her 
hair. 

"My  dearest  EMith  knows  I  was  admiring  her!"  said 
Cleopatra,  tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with 
lerparasol.     "Sweet  pet!" 

Again  Mr.  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed 
so  unexpectedly  among  the  trees.  Again  he  saw  the 
haughty  languor  and  indifference  come  over  it,  and 
hide  it  like  a  cloud. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  him;  but  with  a  slight 
peremptory  motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  mother 
come  near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  un- 
derstand the  hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two 
cavaliers,  kept  near  her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to  distract  his  atten- 
tion, began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select 
the  best,  and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey:  speaking 
w^ith  his  usual  familiar  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey'e 
greatness,  and  rendering'  homage  by  adjusting  his  eye- 
glass for  him.  or  finding  out  the  right  place  in  his  cata^ 
logue,  or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  Tike.  These  services 
did  not  so  much  originate  with  Mr.  Carker,  in  truth,  as 
with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  wlio  was  apt  to  assert  his 
chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authoritv,  and  in 
an  easy  way — for  him — "  Here,  Carker,  have  the  good- 
ness to  assist  me,  will  you! "  which  the  smiling  gentle- 
man always  did  with  pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow's 
nest,  and  so  forth;  and  as  they  were  still  one  little 
party,  and  the  major  was  rather  in  the  shade,  being 
sleepy  during  the  process  of  digestion,  Mr.  Carker  be- 
came communicative  and  agreeable.  At  first,  he  ad- 
dressed himself  for  the  most  part  to  Mrs.  Skewton;  but 
as  that  sensitive  lady  was  in  such  ecstasies  with  the 
works  of  art,  after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that 
she  could  do  nothing  but  yawn  (they  were  such  perfect 
inspirations,  she  observed  as  a  reason  for  that  mark  of 
rapture),  he  transferred  his  attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey  said  little  beyond  an  occasional  "Very 
true,  Carker,"  or  "Indeed,  Carker?"  but  he  tacitly 
encouraged  Carker  to  proceed,  and  inwardly  approved 
of  his  behavior  very  much:  deeming  it  as  well  that 
somebody  should  tallc,  and  thinking  that  bis  remarks, 
which  were,  as  one  might  say,  a  branch  of  the  pateai 


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410  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

estabHshment,  might  amuse  Mrs.  Granger.  Mr.  Carter, 
who  possessed  an  excellent  discretion,  flever  took  the 
liberty  of  addressing  that  lady,  direct;  but  she  aeeineil 
to  listen,  though  she  never  looked  at  him;  and  once  or 
twice,  when  he  was  emphatic  in  his  peculiar  humility, 
the  twilight  smile  stole  over  her  face,  not  as  a  light,  but 
as  a  deep  black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted, 
and  the  major  very  much  so:  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Sfcewtoa,  whose  peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had 
become  very  frequent  indeed:  the  carriage  was  ^ain 
put  in  requisition,  and  they  rode  to  several  admireJ 
points  of  view  in  the  neighborhood.  Mr,  Dombey  cere- 
moniously observed  of  one  of  these,  that  a  sketch,  how- 
evei  slight,  from  the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  Granger,  would 
be  a  remembrance,  to  him  of  that  agreeable  day :  though 
he  wanted  no  artificial  remembrance  he  was  sure  (here 
Mr  Dombey  made  another  of  his  bows),  whicn  he 
must  always  highly  value.  Withers  the  lean  having 
Edith's  sketch-book  under  his  arm,  was  immediately 
called  upon  by  Mrs,  Skewton  to  pro<luce  the  same:  and 
the  carnage  stopped,  that  Edith  might  make  the  draw- 
ing which  Mr.  Dombey  was  to  put  away  among  his 
treasures. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  trouble  you  too  much,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey, 

"By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken 
from?"  she  answered,  turning  to  him  with  the  same  en- 
forced attention  as  before. 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the 
starch  in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  that  to  the  artist. 

"  I  would  rather  jou  chose  for  yourself,"  said  Edith. 

"  Suppose  then,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  we  say  from 
hero,  ft  appears  a  good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or — Car- 
ker.  what  do  you  thmk?" 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some  little 
distance,  a  grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which  Mr. 
Carker  had  made  his  chain  of  footsteps  in  the  morning, 
and  with  a  seat  under  one  tree,  generally  resembling, 
in  the  general  character  of  its  situation,  the  point  where 
his  cham  had  broken. 

*'  Might  I  venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger?"  said 
Carker,  "  that  that  is  an  interesting— ahnost  a  curious 
—point  of  view?" 

D,g,l.2cd|v,G00gIc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  411 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  riding-whip  with  her 
«yes,  and  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the 
eecoud  glance  they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduc- 
tion; and  would  have  been  exactly  like  the  first,  but 
that  its  expression  was  plainer. 

"  Would  you  like  that?  "  said  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  1  shall  be  charmed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where 
Mr.  Dombey  was  to  be  charmed;  and  Edith,  without 
moving  from  her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book 
with  her  usual  proud  indifference,  began  to  sketch. 

■'  My  pencils  are  all  pointless,''  she  said,  stopping  and 
turning  them  over. 

"  Pray  allow  mo,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Or  Carker 
will  do  it  better,  as  he  understands  these  things.  Car- 
ker have  the  goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for  Mrs. 
Granger." 

Mr.  Carker  rode  up  close  to  the  carriage-door  on  Mrs. 
Granger's  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his  horse's 
neck,  took  the  pencils  from  her  hand  with  a  smile  and 
a  bow,  and  sat  in  the  saddle  leisurely  mending  them. 
Having  done  so  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  them, 
and  to  hand  them  to  her  as  they  were  required;  and 
thus  Mr.  Carker,  with  many  commendations  of  Mrs. 
Granger's  extraordinary  skill— especially  in  trees — re- 
mained close  at  her  siae,  looking  over  tlie  drawing  as 
she  made  it.  Mr.  Dombey  in  the  meantime  stood  bolt 
upright  in  the  carriage  like  a  highly  respectable  ghost, 
looking  on  too;  while  Cleopatra  and  the  major  dallied 
as  two  ancient  doves  might  do. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I  finish  it  a  lit- 
tle more?  "  said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched;  it 
was  perfection. 

"  It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Carker,  bringing 
every  one  of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  "I 
was  not  prepared  for  anything  so  beautiful,  and  so  un- 
usual altogether." 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than 
to  the  sketch;  but  Mr.  Carker's  manner  was  openn^B 
itself — not  as  to  his  mouth  alone,  but  as  to  his  whole 
spirit.  So  it  continued  to  be  while  the  drawing  was  laid 
aside  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  while  the  sketchmg  mate- 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


413  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

rials  were  put  up;  then  he  handed  in  the  peocUs  (which 
were  received  with  a  distant  acknowledgment  of  his 
help,  but  without  a  look),  and  tightening  his  rein,  fell 
back,  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,  that  even  this  trivial 
sketch  had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner,  as  if 
it  had  been  bargained  for  and  bought.  Thinking,  per- 
haps, that  although  she  had  assented  with  such  penect 
readiness  to  his  request,  her  haughty  face,  bent  o»er 
the  drawing,  or  glancing  at  the  distant  objects  repre- 
sented in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a  proud  woman,  en- 
gaged in  a  sordid  and  miserable  transaction.  Think- 
mg,  perhaps,  of  such  things:  but  smiling  certainly, and 
while  he  seemed  to  look  about  him  freely,  in  enjoyment 
of  the  air  and  exercise,  keeping  always  that  sharp  cor- 
ner of  his  eye  upon  the  carriage. 

A  stroll  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and 
more  rides  to  more  points  of  view:  most  of  which,  Mrs. 
Skewton  reminded  Mr.  Dombey,  Edith  had  already 
sketched,  as  he  had  seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings; 
brought  the  day's  expedition  to  a  close.  Mrs.  Skewton 
and  Edith  were  driven  to  their  own  lodgings:  Mr. 
Carker  was  graciously  invited  by  Cleopatra  to  return 
thither  with  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major,  in  the  evening, 
to  hear  some  of  Edith's  music;  and  the  three  gentlemen 
repaired  to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday's,  except 
that  the  major  was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumphant 
and  less  mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  Mr. 
Dombey  was  again  agreeably  embarrassed.  And  Mr. 
Carker  was  full  of  interest  and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Skewton's. 
E<lith's  drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room,  a  little 
more  abundantly  than  usual  perhaps:  and  Withers,  the 
wan  page,  handed  round  a  little  stronger  tea.  The  harp 
was  there;    the  piano  was  there;    and  Edith  sang  and 

Blayed.     But  eveu  the  music  was  paid  by  Edith  to  Mr. 
•ombey's  order,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  uncompromising 
way.     As  thus. 

"Edith,  my  dearest  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  halt 
an  hour  after  tea,  "Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  1 
know." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  him- 
Helf,  mania,  I  have  no  doubt." 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  413 

"I  shall  be  immensely  obliged,"  said  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  What  do  you  wish? 

"Piano?"  hesitated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Whatever  you  please.    You  have  only  to  choose." 

Accordingly,  she  hegan  with  the  piano.  It  was  the 
same  with  the  harpj  the  same  with  her  singing;  the 
same  witli  the  selection  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and 
played.  Such  frigid  and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and 
pointed  acquiescence  with  the  wishes  he  imposed  upon 
her,  and  on  no  one  else,  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to 
penetrate  through  all  the  mysteries  of  picquet,  and  im- 

SreB3  itself  on  Mr.  Carker's  keen  attention.  Nor  did  he 
we  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  evidently 
proud  of  his  power,  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Carker  played  so  well — some  games 
with  the  major,  and  some  witn  Cleopatra,  whose  vigi- 
lance of  eye  in  respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  no 
lynx  could  have  surpassed — that  he  even  heightened  his 
position  in  the  lady-mother's  good  graces;  and  when  on 
taking  leave  he  regretted  that  he  would  be  obliged  to 
return  to  London  next  morning,  Cleopatra  trusted:  com- 
munity of  feeling  not  being  met  with  every  day:  that  it 
was  far  from  being  the  last  time  they  would  meet. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  an  expressive  look 
at  the  couple  in  the  distance,  as  he  drew  towards  the 
door,  following  the  major.     "I  think  so." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a  stately  leave  of  Edith, 
bent,  or  made  some  approach  to  a  bend,  over  Cleopatra's 
couch,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  have  requested  Mrs.  Granger's  permission  to  call 
on  her  to-morrow  morning — for  a  purpose — and  she  has 
appointed  twelve  o'clock.  May  I  hope  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  finding  you  at  home,  madam,  afterwards?" 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved,  by  hear- 
ing this,  of  course  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she 
could  only  shut  her  eyes,  and  shake  her  head,  and  give 
Mr,  Dombey  her  hand;  which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  to  do  with,  dropped. 

"Dombey,  come  alongl"  cried  the  major  looking  in 
at  the  door.  "  Damme,  sir,  old  Joe  has  a  great  mind  to 
propose  an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel, 
and  that  it  should  be  called  the  Three  Jolly  Bachelors, 


slapped  Mr.  Dombey  on  the  back,  and  winking  over 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


^lor 
his 


Hi  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

shoulder  at  the  ladies,  with  a  frightful  tendency  of 
blood  to  the  head,  carried  him  off. 

Mrs.  Skewton  repoaed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat 
apart,  by  her  harp,  in  silence.  The  mother,  trifling 
with  her  fan,  looked  stealthily  at  the  daughter  more 
than  once,  but  the  daughter,  brooding  gloomily  with 
downcast  eyes,  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  liour,  without  a  word, 
until  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  appeared,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  prepare  her  gradually  for  night  At  uight.  She 
should  have  been  a  skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass, 
rather  than  a  woman,  this  attendant:  for  her  touch  was 
as  the  touch  of  Death.  The  painted  object  slirivelled  un- 
derneath her  hand;  the  form  collapsed,  the  hair  dropped 
off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows  changed  to  scanty  tuitsof 
grey;  the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the  skin  became  cadaverous 
and  loose;  an  old,  worn,  yellow  nodding  woman,  with 
red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra's  place,  huddltjJ 
up,  like  a  slovenly  bundle,  in  a  greasy  flannel  gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressra  Edith, 
when  they  were  alone  again, 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  it  said,  sharply,  "that  he 
is  coming  here  to-morrow  by  appointments 

"Because  you  know  it,"  returned  Edith,  "mother." 

The  mocking  emphasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word! 

"You  know  he  uas  bought  me,"  she  resumed.  "Or 
that  he  will,  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bar- 
gain; he  has  shown  it  to  his  friend;  he  is  even  rather 
Eroud  of  it;  he  thinks  that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be 
ad  sufficiently  cheap;  and  he  will  buy  to-morrow. 
God,  that  I  have  lived  for  this,  and  that  I  feel  iti "' 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self- 
abasement,  and  the  burning  indignation  of  a  hundred 
women,  strong  in  passion  and  in  pride;  and  there  it  hid 
itself  with  two  white  shuddering  arms. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  returned  the  angry  mother. 
"  Haven't  you  from  a  child — " 

"  A  child! "  said  Edith,  looking  at  her.  "  when  was  I 
a  child  I  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me?  I 
was  a  woman — artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying 
snares  for  men — before  I  knew  myself,  or  you,  or  even 
understood  the  base  and  wretched  aim  of  every  new 
display  I  learnt.  You  gave  birth  to  a  woman.  Look 
upon  her.    She  is  in  her  pride  to-night." 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  415 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her 
beautiful  bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down 
herself. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "who  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love.  Look  at 
me,  taught  to  scheme  and  plot  when  children  play,  and 
married  in  my  youth — an  old  age  of  design — to  one  for 
whom  I  had  no  feelings  but  indifference.  Look  at  me, 
whom  he  left  a  widow,  dying  before  his  inheritance  de- 
scended to  him — a  judgment  on  youl  well  deserved! — 
and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life  for  ten  years  since." 

"  We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavor  to 
secure  to  you  a  good  establishment,"  rejoined  her 
mother.     "  fhathas  been  your  life.    And  now  you  have 


fair.  BO  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded, 
mother,  ae  I  have  been,  for  ten  sliamefu)  years,"  cried 
Edith,  with  a  burning  brow,  and  the  same  bitter  em- 
phasis on  the  one  won!.  "Is  it  not  so?  Have  I  been 
made  the  by-word  of  all  kinds  of  men?  Have  fools, 
have  profligates,  have  boys,  have  dotards,  dangled  after 
me,  and  one  by  one  rejected  me,  and  fallen  off,  because 
you  were  too  plain  with  all  your  cunning— yes,  and  too 
true,  with  all  those  false  pretences — until  we  have  al- 
most come  to  be  notorious?  The  license  of  look  and 
touch,"  she  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  "  have  I  submitted 
to  it,  in  half  the  places  of  resort  upon  the  map  of  Eng- 
land? Have  I  been  hawked  and  vended  here  and  there, 
until  the  last  grain  of  self-respect  is  dead  within  me, 
and  I  loathe  myself?  Has  this  been  my  late  childhood? 
I  had  none  before.  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  had,  to-night, 
of  all  nights  in  mv  life! " 

"  You  might  nave  been  well  married,"  said  her 
mother,  "  twenty  times  at  least,  Edith,  if  you  had  given 
encouragement  enough." 

"No!  Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I  am,  and  as  I  well 
deserve  to  be,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head,  and 
trembling  in  her  energy  of  shame  and  stormy  pride, 
"  shall  tafee  me,  as  this  man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine 
put  forth  to  lure  him.  He  sees  me  at  the  auction,  and 
he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me.  Let  him!  When  he  came 
to  view  me — perhaps  to  bid — he  required  to  see  the  roll 
of  my  accomplishments.    I  gave  it  to  him.,    Wti^u  \ift 


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416  .  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  justify  his  purchase 
to  his  men,  I  require  of  him  to  say  which  he  aemands, 
and  I  exhibit,  I  will  do  no  more.  He  makes  the  pur- 
chase of  liis  own  will,  and  with  his  own  sense  oi  its 
worth,  and  the  power  of  his  money;  and  I  hope  it  may 
never  disappoint  him.  /  liave  not  vaunted  and  pressed 
the  bargam;  neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  prevent  you." 

"You  talk  strangely  to-night,  Edith,  to  your  own 
mother." 

"It  seems  so  to  me;  stranger  to  me  than  you,"  s^d 
Edith.  "  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago,  I 
am  too  old  now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees,  to 
take  a  new  course,  and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  my- 
self. The  germ  of  all  that  purifies  a  woman's  breast, 
and  makes  it  true  and  good,  has  never  stirred  in  mine, 
and  I  have  nothing  else  to  sustain  me  when  I  despise 
myself."  There  had  been  a  touching  sadness  in  oer 
voice,  but  it  was  gone,  when  she  went  on  to  say,  "So, 
as  we  are  ^nteel  and  poor,  I  am  content  that  we  should 
be  made  rich  by  these  means;  all  I  say  is,  I  have  kept 
the  only  purpose  I  have  had  the  strength  to  form — I  had 
almost  said  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side,  mother— 
and  have  not  tempted  this  man  on." 

"  This  man!  You  speak,"  said  her  mother,  "  as  if  you 
hated  him." 

"And  you  thought  I  loved  him,  did  you  not?"  she 
answered,  stopping  on  her  way  across  the  room,  and  look- 
ing round.  "  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  continued,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  her  mother,  "who  already  knows  us 
thoroughly,  and  reads  us  right,  and  before  whom  I  have 
even  less  of  self-respect  or  confidence  than  before  my 
own  inward  self:  bemg  so  much  degraded  by  bis  knowl- 
edge of  me?" 

"This  is  an  attack,  I  suppose,"  returned  her  mother, 
coldly,  "on  poor,  unfortunate  what's-his-name — Mr. 
Carker!  Your  want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my 
dear,  in  reference  to  that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable, 
it  strikes  me),  is  not  likely  to  have  much  effect  on  youi 
establishment.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  bo  hard?  Are 
you  ill? " 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been  stung, 
and  while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a  terrible 
tremble  crept  over  her  whole  frame.    It  was  quickly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  41? 

gone;  aod  with  her  usual  step  she  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

The  maid,  who  should  have  been  a  skeleton,  then  re- 
appeared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  charms, 
and  to  have  put  on  paralysis  with  her  flannel  gowu,  col- 
lected the  ashes  of  Cleopatra,  and  carried  them  away, 
ready  for  to-morrow's  revivification. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

ALTBBATIONS. 

"  So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,"  said  Florence 
to  the  excellent  Nipper,  "when  we  are  going  back  to 
our  quiet  home! " 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expres- 
sion not  easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feel- 
ings with  a  smart  cough,  answered,  "  Very  quiet  indeed, 
Miss  Floy,  no  doubt.     Excessive  so." 

"When  1  was  a  child,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully, 
and  after  musing  for  some  moments,  "  did  you  ever  see 
that  gentleman  who  htis  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down 
here  to  speak  to  me,  now  three  times — three  times  I 
think,  Susan?" 

"Three  times,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper.  "Once 
when  you  was  out  a  walking  with  them  Sket — " 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper 
checked  herself. 

"  With  Sir  Baruet  and  his  lady,  I  mean  to  say,  miss, 
and  the  young  gentleman.  And  two  evenings  since 
then." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,  and  when  company  used  to 
come  to  visit  papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman  at 
homei  Susan?"  asked  Florence. 

"Well,  miss,"  returned  her  maid,  after  considering, 
"  I  really  couldn't  say  I  ever  did.  When  your  poordear 
ma  died,  Miss  Floy,  I  was  very  new  in  the  family,  you 
see,  and  my  element:"  the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opining 
that  her  merits  had  been    always    designedly  ex.ti&- 


+18  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

guished  by  Mr.  Dombey:  "was  the  floor  below  the 
attics." 

"  To  be  Bure,"  said  Florence,  still  thoughtfully;  "  jou 
are  not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house. 
I  quite  forgot." 

"  Not,  miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,"  said  Susan,  "and  but  what  I  heard  mucn  said 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.   Richards  did  make  un- 

f'leasant  remarks  when  I  was  in  company,  and  hint  at 
ittle  Pitchers,  but  that  could  only  be  attributed,  poor 
thing,"  observed  Susan  with  composed  forbearance,  "'to 
habits  of  intoxication,  for  which  she  was  required  to 
leave,  and  did." 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber  window, 
with  lier  face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out,  and 
hardly  seemed  to  hear  what  Susan  said,  she  was  so  lost 
in  thought. 

"  At  all  events,  miss,"  said  Susan,  "  I  remember  very 
well  that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  yvas  almost, 
if  not  quite,  as  great  a  gentleman  with  your  papa,  then, 
as  he  is  now.  It  used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then,  miss, 
that  he  was  at  the  head  of  all  your  pa's  affairs  in  the 
city,  and  managed  the  whole,  and  that  your  pa  miuded 
him  more  than  anybody,  which,  begging  your  pardon, 
Miss  Floy,  he  might  easy  do,  for  he  never  minded  any- 
body else.  I  knew  that,  Pitcher  as  I  might  have  been." 
Susan  Nipper,  with  an  iniured  remembrance  of  the 
nurse    before    Mrs.    Richards,    emphasised   "Pitcher" 


1  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  fallen  off,  miss,"  she 
pursued,  "hut  has  stood  his  ground,  and  kept  his  credit 
with  your  pa,  I  know  from  what  is  always  said  among 
our  people  by  that  Perch,  whenever  he  comes  to  the 
house,  and  though  he"s  the  weakest  weed  in  the  world, 
Miss  Floy,  and  no  one  can  have  a  moment's  patience 
with  the  man,  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  City  tol- 
erable well,  and  says  that  your  pa  does  nothing  with- 
out Mr.  Carker,  ana  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  acts 
according  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker  always  at 
his  elbow,  and  I  do  believe  that  he  believes  (that  wash- 
iest of  Perches)  that  after  your  pa,  the  Emperor  of  India 
is  the  child  unborn  to  Mr.  Carker." 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  lost  on  Florence,  >vho,  with  an 
awakened  interest  in  Susan's  speech,  no  longer  gazed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  419 

abstractedly  on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her, 
and  listened  with  attention. 

"Yes,  Susan,"  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had 
concluded,  "  He  is  in  papa's  confidence,  and  be  is  his 
friend,  I  am  sure." 

Florence's  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done 
for  some  days,  Mr,  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which 
he  had  followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a  con- 
fidence between  himself  and  her — a  right  on  his  part 
to  be  mysterious  and  stealthy,  in  telHng  her  that  the 
ship  was  still  unheard  of — a  kind  of  mildly  restrained 
power,  and  authority  over  her — that  made  her  wonder, 
and  caused  her  great  uneasiness.  She  had  no  means 
of  repelling  it,  or  of  freeing  herself  from  the  web  he 
was  gradually  winding  about  her;  for  that  would  have 
required  some  art  and  Knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed 
to  such  address  as  his;  and  Florence  had  none.  True, 
he  had  said  no  more  to  her  than  that  there  was  no 
news  of  the  ship,  and  that  he  feared  the  worst;  but 
how  he  came  to  know  that  she  was  interested  in  the 
ship,  and  why  he  had  the  right  to  signify  his  knowl- 
edge to  her,  80  insidiously  and  darfcly,  troubled  Flor- 
ence very  much. 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  her  habit 
of  often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasiness,  be- 
gan to  invest  him  witli  an  uncomfortable  fascination  in 
Florence's  thoughts.  A  more  distinct  remembrance  of 
his  features,  voice,  and  manner:  which  she  sometimes 
courted,  as  a  means  of  reducing  htm  to  the  level  of  a 
real  personage,  capable  of  exerting  no  greater  charm 
over  her  than  anotner:  did  not  remove  the  vague  im- 
pression. And  yet  he  never  frowned,  or  looked  upon 
her  with  an  air  of  dislike  or  animosity,  but  was  always 
smiling  and  serene. 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose  with 
reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution  to 
believe  that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for 
their  so  cold  and  distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind 
that  this  gentleman  was  his  confidential  friend,  and 
would  think,  with  an  anxious  heart,  could  her  struggling 
tendency  to  dislike  and  fear  him  be  a  part  of  that  mis- 
fortune in  her  which  had  turned  her  father's  love 
adrift,  and  left  her  so  alone?  She  dreaded  that  it  might 
be;  sometimes  believed  it  was:  then  she  resolved  tual 


480  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

she  would  try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feeling;  persuaded 
herself  that  she  was  honored  and  encouraged  by  the 
notice  of  her  father's  friend!  and  hoped  that  patient 
observation  of  him  and  trust  in  him  would  lead  bet 
bleeding  feet  along  that  stony  road  which  ended  in  her 
father's  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her — for  she  could  advise 
with  no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against  him- 
gentle  Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt  aod 
nope;  and  Mr.  Carker,  like  a  scaly  monster  of  the  deep, 
swam  down  below,  and  kept  his  shining  eye  upon  her, 

Florence  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wiBhing 
to  be  at  home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited 
to  her  course  of  timid  hope  and  doubt:  and  she  feared 
sometimes,  that  in  her  ahsence  she  might  miss  some 
hopeful  chance  of  testifying  her  affection  for  her  father. 
Heaven  knows,  she  might  have  set  her  mind  at  rest, 
poor  child!  on  tliis  last  point;  but  her  slighted  love  was 
Buttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her  sleep,  it  fle* 
away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering  bird 
come  home,  upon  her  father's  neck. 

Of  Walter  sne  thought  often.  Ahl  how  often,  when 
the  night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  round 
the  house!  But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  is  so 
difficult  for  the  young  and  ardent,  even  with  such  ex- 
perience as  hers,  to  imagine  youth  and  ardor  quenched 
like  a  weak  flame,  and  the  bright  day  of  life  merging 
into  night,  at  noon,  that  hope  was  strong  yet.  Her  team 
fell  frequently  for  Walter's  sufferings,  but  rarely  for  his 
supposed  death,  and  never  long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  Instrument-maker,  but  had 
received  no  answer  to  her  note:  which  indeed  required 
none.  Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morning 
when  she  was  goinghome,  gladly,  to  her  old  secluded  life. 

Doctor  and  Sirs.  Blimber,  aecompanied  (much  against 
his  will)  by  tlieir  valued  charge.  Master  Bamet,  were 
already  gone  back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gen- 
tleman and  his  fellow  pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  t£eu, 
no  doubt,  in  the  continual  resumption  of  their  studies. 
The  holiday  time  was  past  and  over;  most  of  the  juve- 
nile guests  at  the  villa  had  taken  their  departure;  Eind 
Florence's  long  visit  was  come  to  an  end 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resideni 
within  the  house,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  421 

attention  tt)  the  family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted 
to  them.  This  was  Mr.  Toots,  who  after  renewing,  Bome 
weeks  ago,  the  acquaintance  he  had  had  the  happiness 
of  forming  with  Seettles  Junior,  on  the  night  when  he 
burst  the  Blimberian  bonds  and  soared  into  freedom  with 
his  ring  on,  called  regularly  every  other  day,  and  left  a 
perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall  door;  so  many  indeed, 
that  the  ceremony  was  guite  a  deal  on  the  part  of  Mr. 

,  Toots,  and  a  hand  at  whist  on  the  part  of  the  servant, 
Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of 
preventing  the  family  from  forgetting  him  {biit  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  this  expedient  originated  in  the 
teeming  brain  of  the  Chicken),  had  established  a  six 
oared  cutter,  manned  by  atjuatic  friends  of  the  Chickens 
and  steered  by  that  illustrious  character  in  person,  who 
wore  a  bright  red  fireman's  coat  for  the  purpose,  and 
concealed  the  perpetual  black  eye  with  wnicn  he  was 
afflicted  beneath  a  green  shade.  Previous  to  the  insti- 
tution of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots  sounded  the  Chicken 
on  a  hypothetical  case,  as,  supposing  the  Chicken  to  be 
enamored  of  a  young  lady  named  Mary,  and  to  have 
conceived  the  intention  of  starting  a  boat  of  his  own, 
what  would  he  call  that  boat?  The  Chicken  replied, 
with  divers  strong  asseverations,  that  he  would  either 
christen  it  Poll  or  the  Chicken's  Delight.  Improving  on 
this  idea,  Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  stutR  and  the  exercise 
of  much  invention,  resolved  to  call  his  boat  the  Toots"s 
Joy,  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  Florence,  of  which  no 
man  knowing  the  parties  could  possibly  miss  the  appre- 
ciation. 

Stretched  on  a  crimson  cushion  in  his  gallant  bark, 
with  his  shoes  in  the  air,  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of 
his  project,  had  come  up  the  river,  day  after  day,  and 
week  after  week,  and  had  flitted  to  and  fro,  near  Sir 
Barnet's  garden,  and  had  caused  his  crew  to  cut  across 
and  across  the  river  at  sharp  angles,  for  his  better  ex- 
hibition to  any  lookers-out  from  Sir  Barnet's  windows, 
and  had  had  such  evolutions  perfdrmed  by  the  Toots's 
Delight  as  had  filled  all  the  neighboring  part  of  the 
water-side  with  astonishment.  But  whenever  he  saw 
any  one  in  Sir  Barnet's  garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river, 
Mr.  Toots  always  feigned  to  be  passing  there  by  a  eom- 

■  bination  of  coincidences  of  the  most  singular  and  un- 
likely description. 


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43«  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  How  are  you,  Toots! "  Sir  Bamet  would  say,  warae 
his  hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken  steerw 
close  in  shore. 

"  How  de  do,  Sir  Bamet! "  Mr.  Toots  would  answer. 
"  What  a  surprising  thing  that  I  should  see  you  here?" 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  this,  as  if, 
instead  of  that  being  Sir  Bamet's  house,  it  were  soroe 
deserted  edifice  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or  Ganges. 

"  I  never  was  so  surprised! "  Mr.  Toots  would  exclaim. 
"Is  Miss  Dombey  there?" 

Whereupon  Florence  would  appear,  perhaps. 

"  Oh,  Diogenes  is  quite  well,  Miss  Dombey,  Mr.  Tools 
would  cry.     "  I  called  to  ask  this  morning. 

"Thank  you  very  much  I "  the  ple£iaant  voice  of  Flor- 
ence would  reply. 

"Won't  you  come  ashore,  Toots?"  Sir  Bamet  would 
say  then.  "Come!  you're  in  no  hurry,  Comeandsee 
us." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you!"  Mr.  Toots 
would  blushingly  rejoin,  "I  thought  Miss  Dombej 
might  like  to  know,  that's  all.  Good  by!"  And  poor 
Mr.  Toots,  who  was  dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  but 
hadn't  the  courage  to  do  it,  signed  to  the  Chicken,  with 
an  aching  heart,  and  away  went  the  Delight,  cleaving 
the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Delight  was  lying  in  a  state  of  extraordinary 
splendor,  at  the  garden  steps,  on  the  morning  of  Flor- 
ence's departure.  When  she  went  down-stairs  to  take 
leave,  after  her  talk  with  Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots 
awaiting  her  in  the  drawirig  room. 

"Oh,  now  de  do.  Miss  Dombey?"  said  the  stricken 
Toots,  always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire 
of  his  heart  was  gained,  and  be  was  speaking  to  her: 
"thank  you.  I'm  very  well  indeed,  I  hope  you're  the 
same,  so  was  Diogenes  yesterday." 

"  You  are  very  Icind,''  said  Florence. 

"Thank  you,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr. 
Toots.  "I  thought  perhaps  you  would't  mind,  in  this 
fine  weather,  coming  home  oy  water,  Miss  Dombey. 
There 's  plenty  of  room  in  the  boat  for  your  maid." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Florence,  hesi- 
tating.    "  I  really  am — but  I  would  rather  not." 

"(Jn.  it's  of   no  consequence,"   retorted    Mr.  Toots.* 
"  Good  morning! " 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  423 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Sfcettlesf"  asked  Flor- 
ence, kindly, 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  retunied  Mr.  Toots,  "  it 's  of  no 
consequence  at  idl." 

So  shy  iras  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flur- 
ried! But  Lady  Skettlee  entering  at  the  moment,  Mr. 
Toots  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  passion  for  asking  her 
how^  she  did,  and  hopinc;  she  was  very  well;  nor  could 
Mr.  Toots  by  any  possioility  leave  off  shaking  hands 
with  her  until  Sir  Barnet  appeared:  to  whom  he  im- 
mediately clung  with  the  tenacity  of  desperation. 

"  We  are  losing,  to-day, Toots,"  said  Sir  Bamet,  turning 
towards  Florence,  "  the  light  of  our  house,  I  assure  you. 

"  Oh,  it 's  of  no  conseq — I  mean  yes,  to  be  sure," 
faltered  the  embarrassed  Toots.     "  Good  morning! " 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell, 
Mr,  Toots,  instead  of  going  away,  stood  leering  about 
him,  vacantly.  Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu, 
with  many  thanks,  to  Lady  Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm 
to  Sir  Bamet. 

"  May  I  beg  of  you,  my  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  her 
host,  as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  "to  present 
my  best  compliments  to  your  dear  papa!-' " 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commis- 
sion, for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Bamet 
by  allowing  him  to  believe  that  a  kindness  rendered  to 
her  was  rendered  to  her  father.  As  she  could  not  ex- 
plain, however,  she  bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him; 
and  again  she  thought  that  the  dull  home,  free  from 
:uch  embaiTassments,  and  such  reminders  of  her  sor- 
row, was  her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet 
remaining  at  the  villa  came  running  from  within,  and 
from  the  garden,  to  say  good  hy.  They  were  all  at- 
tached to  her,  and  very  earnest  in  taking  leave  of  her. 
Even  the  household  were  sorry  for  her  going,  and  the 
servants  came  nodding  and  curtseying  round  the  car- 
riage door.  As  Florence  looked  round  on  the  kind 
faces,  and  saw  among  them  those  of  Sir  Barnet  and  his 
lady,  and  of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  chuckling  and  staring 
at  her  from  a  distance,  she  was  reminded  of  the  night 
when  Paul  and  she  had  come  from  Doctor  Blimber's: 
*  and  when  the  carriage  drove  away,  her  face  was  wet 
with  tears. 


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421  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation  too:  for  all 
the  softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house 
to  which  she  was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her,  ae  they 
rose  up.  How  long  it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered 
through  the  silent  rooms:  since  she  had  last  crppt,  softly 
and  afraid,  into  those  her  father  occupied :  since  she  hail 
felt  the  solemn  but  yet  soothing  influence  of  the  beloved 
dead  in  every  action  of  her  daily  life!  This  new  fare- 
well reminded  her,  besides,  of  her  parting  with  poor 
Walter:  of  his  looks  and  words  that  night:  and  of  the 
gracious  blending  she  had  noticed  in  him  of  tenderness 
lor  those  he  left  behind  with  couri^e  and  high  spiril. 
His  little  history  was  associated  with  the  old  house  too, 
and  gave  it  a  new  claim  and  hold  upon  her  heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  towards  the  home  of  so 
many  years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  towards  it. 
Gloomy  as  it  was,  and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to 
its  gloom,  she  forgave  it  a  great  deal.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  it  again,  I  don't  deny,  miss,"  said  the  Nipper, 
"  There  ain't  much  in  it  to  boast  of,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
it  burnt  or  pulled  down,  neither!" 

"  You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't 
you,  Susan!'"  said  Florence,  smiling, 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more 
and  more  towards  the  house,  as  they  approached  it 
nearer,  "  I  won't  deny  but  what  I  Bhall,-though  I  shall 
hate  'em  again,  to-morrow,  very  likely." 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater  peace 
within  it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  easier  to 
keep  her  secret  shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark 
walls,  than  to  carry  it  abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to 
hide  it  from  a  crowd  of  happy  eyes.  It  was  better  to 
pursue  the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and  find 
no  new  discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her.  It 
was  easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on,  all  uncared 
for,  yet  with  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil 
sanctuary  of  such  remembrances:  although  it  mould- 
ered, rusted,  and  decayed  about  her:  than  in  a  new 
scene,  let  its  gaiety  be  what  it  would.  She  welcomed 
back  her  old  enchanted  dream  of  life,  and  longed  for 
the  old  dark  door  to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and 
sombre  street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the  car- 
riage which  was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  dis- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  425 

tance  lessened  between  them  and  it,  she  looked  out  of 
her  window  for  the  children  over  the  way. 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Susan  cauBed  her  to  turn  quickly  round. 

"  Why  gracious  me! "  cried  Susan,  breathless, 
".where  s  our  house! " 

"  Our  house! "  said  Florence. 

Susan,  drawing  in  her  bead  from  the  window,  thruRt 
it  out  again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  stared  at  her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a  labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round 
the  house,  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of 
bricks  and  stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of 
wood,  blocked  up  half  the  width  and  length  of  the 
broad  street  at  the  side.  Ladders  were  raised  against 
the  walls;  laborers  were  climbing  up  and  down:  men 
were  at  work  upon  the  steps  of  the  scaffolding;  painters 
and  decorators  were  busy  inside;  great  rolls  of  orna- 
mental paper  were  being  delivered  from  a  cart  at  the 
doorj  an  upholsterer's  wagon  also  stopped  the  way;  no 
furniture  was  to  be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken 
windows  in  any  of  the  rooms;  nothing  but  workmen, 
and  the  implements  of  their  several  trades,  swarming 
from  the  kitchens  to  the  garrets.  Inside  and  outside 
alike:  bricklayers,  painters,  carpenters,  masons i  ham- 
mer, hod,  brush,-  pickaxe,  saw,  and  trowel:  all  at  work 
together,  in  full  chorus! 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if 
it  were,  or  could  be,  the  right  house  until  she  recog- 
nized Towlinson,  with  a  sun-burnt  face,  standing  at  the 
door  to  receive  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter?"  inquired  Florence. 

"  Oh  no,  miss." 

"  There  are  great  alterations  going  on." 

"  Yes,  miss,  great  alterations,    said  Towlinson, 

Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream,  and 
hurried  up-stairs.  The  garish  light  was  in  the  long- 
darkened  drawing-room,  and  there  were  steps  and  plat- 
forms, and  men  in  paper  caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her 
mother's  picture  was  gone  with  the  rest  of  the  mova- 
bles, and  on  the  mark  where  it  had  been  was  scrawled 
in  chalk,  "  this  room  in  panel.  Green  and  gold,"  The 
staircase  was  a  labyrinth  of  posts  and  planks  like  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  a  whole  01yinp\Ji5  ol  ^\mt(&>- 


426  DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

erg  and  elaziers  were  recliQiog  ia  various  attitudes,  on 
tlie  skylight.  Her  own  room  was  not  yet  touched 
within,  but  there  were  beams  and  boards  raised  against 
it  without,  baulking  the  daylight.  She  went  up  swiftly 
to  that  other  bedroom,  where  the  little  bed  was;  and  a 
dark  giant  of  a  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  bis 
bead  tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  was  staring  m  at 
the  window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipper,  who  had  been  in  quest 
of  Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would  she  go  down 
stairs  to  her  papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  At  home!  and  wishing  to  speak  to  me!  "  cried  Flor- 
ence, trembling, 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Flor- 
ence herself,  repeated  her  errand;  and  Florence,  pale 
and  agitated,  hurried  down  again,  without  a  moment's 
heBitation.  She  thought  upon  the  way  down,  would  she 
dare  to  kiss  him?  The  longing  of  her  heart  resolved 
her,  and  she  thought  she  would. 

Her  father  might  have  heard  that  heart  beat  when  it 
came  into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have 
beat  against  his  breast — 

But  Tie  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there: 
and  Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emiv 
tion,  that  if  her  orute  friend  Di  had  not  burst  in  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  his  caresses  as  a  welcome  home— 
!it  which  one  of  the  ladies  gave  a  little  scream,  and  that 
diverted  her  attention  from  herself — she  would  have 
swooned  upon  the  floor. 

"  Florence,"  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand;  so 
stiffly  that  it  held  her  off :  "how  do  you  do?" 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  putting 
it  timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It 
touched  the  door  in  shutting  it,  with  quite  as  much  en- 
dearment as  it  had  touched  her, 

"  What  dog  is  that? "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  displeased. 

"  It  is  a  dog.  papa — from  Brighton." 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  Dombey;  and  a  cloud  passed  over 
his  face,  for  he  imderstood  her. 

"He  is  very  good-tempered,"  said  Florence,  address- 
ing herself  with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the 
two  lady  strangers.  "  He  is  only  glad  to  see  me,  Prav 
forgive  him." 

She   saw  in  the  glance  they  interchanged    that  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON..  437 

ladT  who  had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old; 
and  that  the  other  laAy,  who  stood  near  her  papa,  was 
very  beautiful  and  of  an  elegant  figure. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first, 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  "  this  is  my  daughter  Flor- 
ence." 

"  Charming,  I  am  sure,"  observed  the  lady,  putting 
up  her  glass.  "  So  natural!  My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  kiss  me,  if  you  please." 

Florence  having  done  bo,  turned  towards  the  other 
lady,  by  whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

"Edith,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "this  is  my  daughter 
Florence.  Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  mama." 

Florence  started,  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  face 
in  a  conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that 
name  awakened  struggled  for  a  moment  with  surprise, 
interest,  admiration,  and  an  indefinable  sort  of  fear. 
Then  she  cried  out,  "  Oh,  papa,  may  you  be  happy!  may 
you  be  very,  very  happy  all  your  life!"  and  tnen  fell 
weeping  on  the  lady's  Bosom. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who 
at  first  had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should 
advance  to  Florence,  held  her  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
the  hand  with  which  she  clasped  her  close  about  her 
waist  as  if  to  reassure  her  and  comfort  her.  Not  one  word 
passed  the  lady's  lips.  She  bent  her  head  down  over 
Florence,  and  she  kissed,  her  on  the  cheek,  but  she  said 
no  word. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing?  Pray 
allow  me,  my  dear  madam." 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  who 
had  been  looking  at  Plorence  through  her  glass  as 
though  picturing  to  herself  what  she  might  be  made  by 
the  infusion — from  her  own  copious  storehouse,  no 
doubt — of  a  little  more  Heart  and  Nature.  Florence 
was  still  sobbing  on  the  ladv's  breast,  and  holding  to 
her,  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  neard  to  say  from  the  con- 
servatory 1 

"  Let  us  ask  Edith.    Dear  me,  where  is  she?" 

"Edith,  my  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "where  are 
you?  Looking  for  Mr,  Dombey  somewhere,  I  know. 
We  are  here;  my  love." 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  oi  'F\oTeT\Cfe,  wcA 


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428  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Eressing  her  Hjis  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew 
urriedly,  and  joined  them.  Florence  remained  stand- 
ing in  the  same  place :  happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in 
tearB,  ahe  knew  Dot  how  or  now  long,  but  all  at  once : 
when  her  new  mama  came  back,  and  took  her  in  her 
amis  again. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  lady  hurriedly,  and  looking  into 
her  face  with  great  earnestness.  "  You  will  not  Mgin 
by  hating  me?  ' 

"By  hating  you,  mama!"  cried  Florence,  winding  her 
arm  round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

"Hush!  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me."  said  the 
beautiful  lady.  "Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to 
make  you  happy,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  jou. 
Florence.  Good  by.  We  shall  meet  again,  soon.  Gooil 
by!     Don't  stay  here,  now." 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast — she  had  spoken 
in  a  rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her 
rejoin  tnem  in  the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  lean> 
from  her  new  and  beautiful  mama  how  to  gain  her 
father's  love;  and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  ol» 
home,  her  own  mama  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hopc- 
and  blessed  it.    Dreaming  Florence! 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE  OPEKINO  OF  THE  EYES  OF  MRS.  CHICK. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appear- 
ances in  connexion  with  Mr.  Dombey's  bouse  as  scaf- 
foldings and  ladders,  and  men  with  their  heads  tied  up 
in  pocket  handkerchiefs,  glaring  in  at  the  windows  Uko 
fl.vmg  genii  or  strange  birds, — having  breakfasted  one 
nioming  at  about  this  eventful  period  of  time  on  her 
customaiy  viands:  to  wit,  one  French  roll  rasped,  one 
egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little  pot  of 
tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver  scoopiul  of 
that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Toz,  and  one  little  silver 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  421i 

scoopful  on  behalf  of  the  teapot — a  flight  of  fancy'iii 
which  good  houBekeepers  delight;  went  up-stairs  to  set 
forth  the  bird  waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and  ■ 
arrange  the  plants,  to  duet  the  nick-nacks,  and,  accord- 
ing to  her  dally  custom,  to  make  her  little  drawing-room 
the  garland  of'^Princess's-plaee. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient 
gloves,  like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  perform  these  avocations — hidden  from  human  sight 
at  other  times  in  a  table  drawer — and  went  methodically 
to  work;  beginning  with  the  bird  waltz:  passing,  by  a 
natural  association  of  ideas,  to  her  bird — a  very  high- 
shouldered  canary,  stricken  in  years,  and  much  rum- 
Eled,  but  a  piercing  singer,  as  Princess's-place  well 
new;  taking,  next  m  order,  the  little  china  ornaments, 
paper  fly-cages,  and  so  forth;  and  coming  round,  in 
good  time,  to  the  plants,  which  generally  required  to  be 
Huipped  here  and  there  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  some 
botanical  reason  that  was  very  powerful  with  Miss 
Tox. 

Miss  Tox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants,  this  morn- 
ing. The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly;  and 
there  was  a  s^h  of  the  summer  time  in  Princess's-place, 
that  turned  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The 
pot-boy  attached  to  the  Princess's  Arms  had  come  out 
with  a  can  and  trickled  water,  in  a  flowing  pattern,  all 
over  Princess's-place,  and  it  gave  the  weedy  ground  a 
fresh  scent  —  quite  a  growing  scent,  Miss  Tox  said. 
There  was  a  tiny  blink  of  sun  peeping  in  from  the  great 
street  round  the  comer,  and  the  smoky  sparrows  hopped 
over  it  and  back  again,  brightening  as  they  passed:  or 
bathed  in  it  like  a  stream,  and  became  glorified  spar- 
rows, unconnected  with  chimneys.  Legends  in  praise 
of  Ginger  Beer,  with  pictorial  representations  of  tnirsty 
customers  submerged  in  the  effervescence,  or  stunned 
by  the  flying  corks,  were  conspicuous  in  the  window  of 
the  Princess  s  Arms.  They  were  making  late  hay,  some- 
where out  of  town;  and  though  the  fragrance  had  a 
long  way  to  come,  and  many  counter  fragrances  to  con- 
tend wrtn  among  the  dwelhngs  of  the  poor  (may  God 
reward  the  wortliv  gentlemen  who  stickle  for  tne  plague 
as  part  and  parcel  of  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  and 
who  do  their  little  best  to  keep  those  dwellings  miser- 
able!), yet  it  was  wafted  faintly  into  Princess' s-vl'Wifti 


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4;)0  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

whisperine  of  nature  and  her  wholesome  air,  as  Eucb 
things  wiiT,  even  unto  prisoners  and  captives,  and  those 
•  who  are  desolate  and  oppressed. 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  though* 
of  her  good  papa  deceased — Mr.  Tox,  of  the  CustoiO* 
Department  of  the  public  service;  and  of  her  childhood* 
passed  at  a  seaport,  among  a  considerable  quantity  a* 
coal  tar,  and  some  rusticity.  She  fell  into  a  softener* 
remembrance  of  meadows  in  old  time,  gleaming  witt* 
buttercups,  like  so  many  inverted  finnaments  of  goldeC» 
stars;  and  how  she  had  made  chains  of  dandelion  stalks 
for  youthful  vowers  of  eternal  constancy,  dressed- 
chiefly  in  nankeen;  and  how  soon  those  fetters  had 
withered  and  broken. 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  th» 
sparrows  and  the  blink  of  sun,  Miss  Tox  thought  like- 
wise of  her  good  mama  deceased — sister  to  the  owner  of 
the  powdered  head  and  pigtail — of  her  virtues,  and  her 
rheumatism.  And  when  a  man  with  bulgy  legs,  and  a 
rough  voice,  and  a  heavy  basket  on  his  head  that 
crushed  his  hat  into  a  mere  black  muffin,  came  ciying 
flowers  down  Princess's-place,  making  his  timid  little 
roots  of  daisies  shudder  in  the  vibration  of  every  yell 
he  gave,  as  though  he  had  been  an  ogre  hawking  little 
children,  summer  recollections  were  so  strong  upon 
Miss  Tox  that  she  shook  her  head,  and  murmured  she 
would  be  comparatively  old  before  she  knew  it — which 
seemed  likely. 

In  lier  pensive  mood.  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wan- 
dering on  Mr.  Dorabey's  track,  probably  because  the 
major  had  returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and 
had  just  bowed  to  her  from  his  window.  What  other 
reason  could  Miss  Tox  have  for  connecting  Mr,  Dombey 
with  her  summer  days  and  dandelion  fetters?  Was  he 
more  cheerful?  thought  Miss  Tox.  Was  he  reconciled 
((>  the  decree  of  fate?  Would  he  ever  marry  again; 
and  if  yes,  whom?     What  sort  of  person  now! 

A  flush — it  was  warm  weather — overspread  Miss  Tox's 
fare,  as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she 
turned  her  liead.  and  was  surprised  by  the  reflection  of 
her  thoughtful  image  in  the  chimney-glass.  Another 
flush  succeeded  when  she  saw  a  little  carri^e  drive 
into  Prince.ss'fl-place,  and  make  straight  for  her  own 
door.     Miss  Tox  arose,  took  up  her  scissors  hastily,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Wi 

*o  <x>ining,  at  last,  to  the  plants,  was  very  busy  with 
jhem  when  Mrs.  Chick  entered  the  room. 

'*  How  is  my  sweetest  friendl  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tox, 
with  open  arms. 

A  little  statelinesB  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox's 
sweetest  friend's  demeanor,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox, 
and  said,  "  Lucretia,  thank  you,  I  am  pretty  well.  I 
tiope  you  are  the  same.     Hem! " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  laboring  under  a  peculiar  little  mono- 
syllabic cough;  a  sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction 
fco  the  art  of  coughing. 

'*  You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is,  my  dear! " 
pursued  Miss  Tox.     "  Now  have  you  breakfasted? " 

"  Thank  you,  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  have.     I 
took  an  early  breakfast " — the  good  lady  seemed  curious 
on  the  subject  of  Princess's-piaee,  and  looked  all  round 
it  as  she  spoke,  "  with  my  brother,  who  has  come  liome." 
"  He  is  better,  I  trust,  my  love,"  faltered  Miss  Tox. 
"  He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.     Hem!" 
"  My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough,"  re- 
marked Miss  Tox. 

"It's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.     "It's  merely 
change  of  weather.     We  must  expect  change." 
"Of  weather?"  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity. 
"Of  everything,"  relumed  Mrs.  Chick,     "Of  course 
we  must.     It's  a  world  of  change.     Any  one  would  sur- 
prise me  very  much,  Lucretia,  and  would  greatly  alter 
my  opinion  of  their  understanding,  if  they  attempted 
to   contradict  or  evade  what  is  so  perfectly    evident. 
Changel  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  severe  philosophy. 
"  Why,  my  gracious   me,  what  is  there  that  does   not 
change!  even  the  silkworm,  who  I  am   sure  might   he 
supposed    not  to  trouble    itself  about   such    subjects, 
changes  into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  continually." 
"  My  Louisa,"  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  "  is  ever  happy 
in  her  illustrations." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a 
little  softened,  "  as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I  believe. 
I  hope  neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen 
our  opinion  of  the  other,  Lucretia." 
"  I  am  sure  of  it."  returned  Miss  Tox. 
Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the 
carpet  with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.  Miss  Tox, 
who  had  experience  of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that 


m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

under  the  pressure  ot  any  slight  fati^e  or  vexstion 
she  was  prone  to  a  discursive  kind  of  irritaiilitj, 
availed  herself  of  the  pause  to  change  the  subject. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Toi,  "but 
have  I  caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  in 
the  carriage?" 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Mrs,  Chick,  "but  pray  leave  him 
there.  He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite 
contented  for  the  next  two  hours.  Go  on  with  your 
flowers,  Lucretia,  and  allow  me  to  sit  hera  and  rest." 

"My  Louisa  knows,"  observed  MisB  Toi,  "that  be- 
tween friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremonj 
would  be  out  of  the  question.  Thereford— "  Therefore 
Miss  Tox  finished  the  sentence,  not  in  words  but  action; 
and  putting  on  her  gloves  again,  whick  she  had  taken 
off,  and  arming  herself  once  more  with  her  scisson, 
began  to  snip  and  clip  among  fhe  teaves  with  micro- 
scopic industry. 

"  Florence  has  returned  home  also,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  and  her  parasol  sketching  on  the  floor;  "and 
really  Florence  is  a  great  deal  too  old  now  to  continue 
to  lead  that  solitary  life  to  which  she  has  been  accus- 
tomed. Of  course  she  is.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about 
it.  I  should  have  very  little  respect,  indeed,  for  any- 
body who  could  advocate  a  different  opinion.  What- 
ever my  wishes  might  he,  I  could  not  respect  them. 
We  cannot  command  our  feehngs  to  such  an  extent  as 
that." 

MisB  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  proposition, 

"If  she's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "and  if 
my  brother  Paul  cannot  I'eel  perfectly  comfortable  in 
her  society  after  all  the  sftd  things  that  have  happened, 
and  all  the  terrible  disappointments  that  have  been  un- 
dergone, then,  what  is  tne  reply?  That  he  must  make 
an  effort.  That  he  is  bound  to  make  an  effort.  We 
have  always  been  a  family  remarkable  for  effort  Paul 
is  at  the  head  of  the  family;  almost  the  only  represent- 
ative of  it  left — for  what  am  I — /  am  of  no  conse- 
quence— " 

"  My  dearest  love,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox, 

Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  which  were,  for  the  mo- 
ment, overflowing;  and  proceeded; 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  b 

ake  an  effort.    And  though  his  having  done  s 

►on  me  with  a  sort  of  shock — for  mioe  is  a  very  weak 

id  foolish  nature;  which  is  anything  but  a  blessing  I 

Q  sure;  I  often  wish  my  heart  was  a  marble  slab,  or  a 

.ving  stone — " 

"  My  sweet  Louisa,"  remonstrated  Miss  Toz  again. 

"  Still  it  is  a  triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  so  true 

himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dombey;  although  of 
urse  I  always  knew  he  would  be.  I  onlv  hope,"  said 
rs.  Chick,  after  a  pause,  "  that  she  may  be  worthy  of 
e  name  too." 

Miss  Tox  filled  a  little  green  watering-pot  from  a  jug, 
id  happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was 

surpnsed  by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had 
nveyed  into  her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her, 
at  she  put  the  little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the 
esent,  and  sat  down  near  it. 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "will  it  be  the 
1st  satisfaction  to  you  if  I  venture  to  observe  in 
fereuce  to  that  remark,  that  I,  as  a  humble  indi- 
dual,  think  your  sweet  niece  in  every  way  most  prom- 

■' What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia?"  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 
th  increased  stateliness  of  manner,     "  To  what  re- 
irk  of  mine,  my  dear,  do  you  refer?  " 
"Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,"  replied 
188  Tox. 

"  IE,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience, "  I  have 
't  expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault 
course  is  mine.    There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  whv  I 
ould  express  myself  at  all  except  the  intimacy  tnat 
is  subsisted  between  us,  and  whicn  I  very  much  hope, 
ucretia — confidentially  hope — nothing   will  occur  to 
sturb.     Because,  why  should  I  do    an^hing   else? 
Iiere  is  no  reason;  it  would  be  absurd.    But  I  wish  to 
[press  myself  clearly,  Lucretia;  and  therefore,  to  go 
ick  to  that  remark,  I  must  beg  to  say  that  it  was  not 
tended  to  relate  to  Florence  in  any  way." 
"  Indeed! "  returned  Miss  Tox. 
"  No,"  said  Mrs  Chick,  shortly  and  decisively. 
"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  rejoined  her  meek  friend; 
but  I  cannot  have  understood  it.     I  fear  I  am  dull." 
Mrs.  Chick  looked  round  tho  room  and  over  the  wa.'^*. 


134  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

at  the  plants,  at  the  bird,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost 
everytbing  within  view,  except  Miss  Tox;  and  finally, 
dropping  Ker  glance  upon  Miss  Tox,  for  a  moment,  on 
its  way  to  the  ground,  said,  looking  meanwhile  witii 
elevated  eyebrows  at  the  carpet: 

"  When  I  speak,  Lucretia,  of  her  being  w^orthy  of  the 
name,  I  speak  of  my  brother  Paul's  second  wife.  I 
believe  I  have  already  said,  in  effect,  if  not  in  the  very 
words  I  now  use,  that  it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a 
second  wife." 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  to 
her  plants^clippin^among  the  stemsand  leaves  with  as 
little  favor  as  a  barber  working  at  so  many  pauper 
heads  of  hair. 

"  Whether  she  will  be  fully  sensible  of  the  distinction 
conferred  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  lofty  tone, 
"  is  quite  another  question.  I  hope  she  may  be.  We 
are  bound  to  think  well  of  one  another  in  this  world, 
and  I  hope  slie  may  be.  I  have  not  been  advised  with, 
myself.  If  I  had  been  advised  with,  I  have  no  doubt 
my  advice  would  have  been  cavalierly  received,  and 
therefore  it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is.  I  much  prefer 
it,  as  it  is." 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clip}>ed  among 
the  plants.  Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shakings  of  her 
own  head  from  time  to  time,  contmued  to  hold  forth, 
as  if  in  defiance  of  somebody. 

"  If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which 
he  sometimes  does — or  rather,  sometimes  used  to  do; 
for  he  will  naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a 
circumstance  which  I  regard  as  a  relief  from  responsi- 
bility," said  Mrs.  Chick,  hysterically,  "for  I  thant 
Heaven  I  am  not  jealous— "here  Mrs.  Chick  again  shed 
tears:  "if  my  brother  Paul  had  come  to  me,  and  haJ 
said,  '  Louisa,  what  kind  of  qualities  would  you  advise 
rae  to  look  out  for,  in  a  wife?'  I  should  certainly  have 
answered,  '  Paul,  you  must  have  family,  you  must 
have  beauty,  you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have  con- 
nexion,' Those  are  the  words  I  should  have  used.  You 
might  have  led  me  to  the  block  immediately  after- 
wards," said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  consequence  were 
highly  probable.  "  but  I  should  have  used  them.  I 
should  have  said,  'Paul!  You  to  marry  a  second  time 
without  family!  You  to  marry  without  beauty!  You  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  435 

?  without  dignity!  Yoh  to  marry  without  connex- 
here  is  nobody  m  the  world,  not  mad,  who  could 
mof  daring  to  entertain  such  aprepoBterousidea!'" 
88  Tox  stopped  clipping;  and,  with  ner  head  among 
plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox 
?ht  there  was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  in  the 
ifth  of  Mr.  Chick. 

should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument," 
led  the  discreet  lady,  "because  I  trust  I  am  not  a 
I  make  no  claim  to  be  considered  a  person  of 
■ior  intellect — though  I  believe  some  people  have 
extraordinary  enough  to  consider  me  so;  one  so  little 
>red  as  I  am  would  very  soon  be  disabused  of  any 

notion;  but  I  trust  I  am  not  a  downright  fool.  And 
1  HE,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  ineffable  disdain  "  that 
rother  Paul  Dombey  could  ever  contemplate  the 
bility  of  uniting  himself  to  anybody — I  d<>n't  care 
' — she  was  more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  that  short 
e  than  in  any  other  part  of  her  discourse — "not 
issing  these  requisites  would  be  to  insult  what 
rstanding  I  have  got  as  much  as  if  I  was  to  be  told 
I  was  bom  and  bred  an  elephant.  Which  I  may 
■Id  next,"  said  Mrs,  Chick,  with  resignation,  "It 
dn't  surprise  me  at  all.     I  expect  it." 

the  moment's  silence  that  ensued.  Miss  Tox's 
>rs  gave  a  feeble  clip  or  two;  but  Miss  Tox's  face 
itill  invisible,  and  Miss  Tox's  morning  gown  was 
ted.  Mrs.  Chick  looked  sideways  at  her,  through 
itervening  plants,  and  went  on  to  say,  in  a  tone  of 
1  conviction,  and  as  one  dwelling  on  a  point  of  fact 
hardly  required  to  he  stated: 

"hererore,  of  course  my  biwther  Paul  has  done  what 
to  be  expected  of  him,  and  what  anybody  might 

foreseen  he  would  do,  if  he  eittered  the  marriage 

again.  I  confess  it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise, 
'ver  gratifying;  because  when  Paul  went  out  of 
I  had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  would  form  any  at- 
oent  out  of  town,  and  he  certainly  had  no  attach- 
.  when  he  left  here.  However,  it  seems  to  be 
mely  desirable  in  every  point  of  view,  I  have  no 
t  the  mother  is  a  most  genteel  and  elegant  creature, 
[  have  no  right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of 
ivingwith  them:  which  is  PauFs  affair,  not  mine 
i  as  to  Paul's  choice,  herself,  I  have  only  aeeu  \ia\ 


■i:JC  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Eicture  yet,  but  that  is  beautiful  indeed.  Her  naine  is 
eautiful  too,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her  head  with 
energy,  and  arranging  herself  in  her  chair;  "Edith is 
at  once  uncommon,  as  it  strikes  me,  and  distinguished. 
Consequently,  Lucretia,  I  -have  no  doubt  you  will  be 
happy  to  hear  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  im- 
meuiately^ — of  c  ■ 'se,  you  will:  great  emphasis  mgain; 
"and  that  you  are  delighted  with  thin  cnange  in  the 
condition  of  my  brother,  who  has  shown  you  a  greai 
deal  of  pleasant  attention  at  various  times. 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the  little 
watering-pot  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  looked  va- 
cantly round  as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture 
would  be  improved  by  the  contents.  The  room  door 
opening  at  this  crisis  of  Miss  Tox's  feelings,  she  started. 
laughed  aloud,  and  fell  ihto  the  arms  of  the  person  en- 
tering; happily  insensible  alike  of  Mrs.  Chick's  indig- 
nant countenance,  and  of  the  major  at  his  window  o^er 
the  way,  who  had  his  double-barrelled  eye-glass  in  full 
action,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were  ddated  with 
Mephistophelean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  native,  amazed  supporter  of 
Miss  Tox's  swooning  form,  who,  coming  straight  up- 
stairs, with  a  polite  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox's  health 
(in  exact  pursuance  of  the  major's  malicious  instruc- 
tions), baa  accidentally  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time 
to  catch  the  delicate  burden  in  liis  arms,  and  to  receive 
the  contents  of  the  little  watering-pot  in  his  shoes;  both 
of  which  circumstances,  coupled  with  his  consciousness 
of  being  closely  watched  by  the  wrathful  major,  who 
had  threatened  the  usual  penalty  in  r^ard  of  eveo' 
bone  in  his  skin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to  ren- 
der him  a  moving  spectacle  of  mental  and  bodily  dis- 
tress. 

For  some  moments,  this  afflicted  foreigner  remained 
clasping  Miss  Tox  to  his  heart  with  an  enerey  of  action 
in  remarkable  opposition  to  his  disconcerted  race,  while 
that  poor  lady  trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  very 
last  sprinklings  of  the  little  watering-pot  as  if  he  were 
a  delicate  exotic  (which  indeed  he  was),  and  might  be 
almost  expected  to  blow  while  the  gentle  rain  descended. 
Mrs,  Chick,  at  length  recovering  sufficient  presence  of 
mind  to  interpose,  commanded  nim  to  drop  Miss  Tox 
upon  the  sofa  and  withdraw;    and  the  exile  promptl.v 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  437 

obeying,  she  applied  herself  to  promote  Miss  Toi's  re- 
covery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern  which  usually  char- 
acterises the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each 
ither;  none  of  that  freemasonrv  in  fainting,  by  which 
ihey^  are  generally  bound  togetner  in  a  mysterious  bond 
)f  sisterhood;  was  visible  m  Mrs.  Chick's  demeanor, 
fiather  like  the  executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to 
«Dsation  previous  to  proceeding  with  the  torture  (or 
jpas  wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for  which  all 
rue  men  wear  perpetual  mourning)  did  Mrs.  Chick  ad- 
ninister  the  smelling-bottle,  the  slapping  on  the  hands, 
he  dashing  of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  the  other 
troved  remedies.  And  when  at  length  Miss  Tox  opened 
ler  eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  to  animation 
ind  consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off  as  from  a  crim- 
nal,  and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the  murdered  king 
if  Denmark,  regarded  her  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 

"  Lucretia!  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  will  not  attempt  to 
lisguise  what  I  feel.  My  eyes  are  opened,  all  at  once, 
wouldn't  have  believed  this,  if  a  samt  had  told  it  to 
ne." 

"  I  am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,"  Miss  Tox  fal- 
ered.     "I  shall  be  better  presently." 

"You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia!"  repeated 
tf  rs.  Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  "  Do  you  suppose  I 
tm  blind?  Do  you  imagine  I  am  in  my  second  cbild- 
lood?    No,  Lucretia!    lam  obliged  to  you!" 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring,  helpless  kind  of  look 
"owards  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  before  her 
"ace. 

"  If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,"  said  Mrs. 
I^ick  with  majesty,  "or  evenhali-an-hourago,Ishould 
lave  been  tempted,  I  almost  believe.'to  strike  them  to 
;he  earth.  Lucretia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  opened  to  you  all 
it  once.  The  scales:"  here  Mrs.  Chick  cast  down  an 
maginary  pair,  such  as  are  commonly  used  in  a  grocer's 
thops:  "  have  fallen  from  my  sight.  The  blindness  of 
ny  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia.  It  has  been  abused 
jud  played  uppn,  and  evasion  is  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
;ion  now,  I  assure  you." 

"OhI  to  what  do  you  allude  so  cruelly,  ray  love?" 
^sked  Miss  Tox,  through  her  tears. 

"  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "ask  yoUT  O'wii  \ueart,. 


-1.18  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

I  must  entreat  you  not  to  addrefw  me  by  any  such  (a- 
miliar  term  as  you  have  just  used,  if  you  please.  I  ha^c 
some  self-respect  left,  thot^hyou  va&j  think  otherwise." 

"Oh,  Louisa! "  cried  Miss  Tox.  "  How  can  you  speak 
to  me  like  that?  " 

"  How  can  I  speak  to  you  like  that?  "  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argu- 
ment to  sustain  herself  upon,  relied  principally  on  such 
repetitions  for  her  most  withering  effects.  "  Like  that! 
You  may  well  say  like  that,  indeedl" 

Miss  Tox  sobbed  pitifully. 

"The  idea!"  said  Mrs.  Cnick,  "  of  yotir  having  basked 
at  my  brother's  fireside,  like  a  serijent,  and  wound 
yourself,  through  me,  almost  into  bis  confidence,  Lucre- 
tia,  that  you  might,  in  secret,  entertain  designs  upoD 
him,  and  dare  to  aspire  to  contemplate  the  possibility 
of  his  uniting  himself  to  you!  Why,  it  is  an  idea,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  sarcastic  dignity,  "the  absurdity  of 
wliich  almost  relieves  its  treachery." 

"  Pray,  Louisa,"  urged  Miss  Tqi,  "do  not  say  such 
dreadful  things."  ' 

"  Dreadful  things!  "  repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Dreadful 
things!  Is  it  not  a  fact,  Lucretia,  that  you  have  just 
now  been  unable  to  command  your  feelings  even  before 
me,  whose  eyes  you  had  so  completely  closed?  " 

"  I  have  made  no  complaint,  sobbed  Miss  Tox,  "1 
have  said  nothing.  If  I  have  been  a  little  overpowered 
by  your  news,  Louisa,  and  have  ever  had  any  Imgering 
thought  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  inclined  to  be  partiicular 
towards  me,  surely  you  will  not  condenm  me. 

"  She  is  going  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing 
herself  to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a  comprehen- 
sive glance  of  resignation  and  appeal,  "She  is  going 
to  say — I  know  it--tnat  I  have  encouraged  her! " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  exchange  reproaches,  dear  Louisa." 
sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "Nor  do  I  wish  to  complain.  But, 
in  my  own  defence — " 

"\e8,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  looking  round  the  room 
with  a  prophetic  smile,  "  that's  what  she's  going  to  sav. 
I  knew  it.  You  had  better  say  it.  Say  jt  openly!  Be 
open,  Lucretia  Tox,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate 
sternness,  "  whatever  you  are." 

"  In  my  own  defence,"  faltered  Miss  Tox,  "and  only 
in   my  own  defence  against  your  unkind  words,  my 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  4:ifl 

iear  Louisa,  I  would  merely  ask  you  if  you  Imveii't 
^fteu  favored  such  a  fancy,  and  even  said  it  might  hap- 
pen for  anything  we  could  tell? " 

"  There  is  a  point,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  not  as  if 
ihe  were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were 
ibout  to  soar  up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  "beyond 
which  endurance  becomes  ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I 
:an  bear  much;  but  not  too  much.  What  spell  was  on 
ne  when  I  came  into  this  house  this  day,  I  don't  know- 
lut  I  had  a  presentiment — a  dark  presentiment,"  said 
Jrs.  Chick,  with  a  shiver,  "that  something  was  going 

0  happen.  Well  may  I  have  had  that  foreboding, 
.ucretia,  when  my  confidence  of  many  years  is  de- 
troyed  in  an  instant,  when  my  eyes  are  opened  all  at 
nee,  and  when  I  find  you  revealea  in  your  true  colors. 
lUcretia,  I  have  been  mistaken  in  you.  It  is  better  for 
s  both  IJiat  this  subject  should  end  here,  I  wish  you 
rell,  and  I  shall  ever  wish  you  well.  But,  as  an  indi- 
idual  who  desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor 
ositioD,  whatever  that  position  may  be,  or  may  not  be 
-ajid  as  the  sister  of  my  brother — and  as  the  sister-in- 
iw  of  my  brother's  wife— and  as  a  couuexion  by  mar- 
iage  of  my  brother's  wife's  mother-r-may  I  be  permitted 
)  add,  as  a  Dombey?— I  can  wish  you  nothing  else  but 
cod  morning." 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tem- 
ered  and  chastened  by  a  lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude, 
arried  the  speaker  to  tiie  door.  There  she  inclined  her 
ead  in  a  ghostly  and  statue-like  manner,  and  so  with- 
rew  to  her  carriage,  to  seek  comfort  and  consolation 

1  the  arms  of  Mr.  Chick,  her  lord. 

Figuratively  speakinc:,  that  is  to  say;  for  the  arms  of 
Ir.  Chick  were  full  of  his  newspaper.  Neither  did  that 
entleman  address  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  otherwise 
han  by  stealth.  Neither  did  he  offer  any  consolation 
whatever.  In  short,  he  sat  reading,  and  humming  fag 
nds  of  tunes,  and  sometimes  glancing  furtively  at  her 
i^ithout  dehvering  himself  of  a  word,  good,  bad,  or 
odifferent. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Chick  sat  swelling  and  bridling, 
jid  tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeating  that 
olemn  formula  of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox.  At  length, 
he  said  aloud,  "  Oh  the  extent  to  which  her  eyes  nad 
>een  opened  that  day!" 


440  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  To  which  your  eyee  have  been  opened,  my  dear!" 
repeated  Mr.  Chick. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me! "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "If  you 
can  bear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  wnai 
the  matter  is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  for 
ever." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear? "  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

"To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Cnick,  in  a  state  of  soliloquy, 
"that  she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of 
connecting  herself  with  our  family  by  a  marriage  with 
Paul!  To  think  that  when  she  was  playing  at  horses 
with  that  dear  child  who  is  now  in  his  grave — I  never 
liked  it  at  the  time — she  should  have  been  hiding  such  a 
double-faced  design!  I  wonder  she  was  never  afraid 
that  something  would  happen  to  her.  She  ia  fortunate 
if  nothing  does." 

"I  really  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Chick  slowly, 
after  nibbmg  the  bridge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with 
his  newspaper,  "that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  track 
yourself,  all  along,  until  this  morning;  and  had  thou^l 
it  would  be  a  convenient  thing  enough  if  it  could  have 
been  brought  about," 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Ur. 
Chick  that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his 
boots  he  had  better  do  it. 

"  But  with  Lueretia  Tox  I  have  done,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  after  abandoning  herself  to  her  feelings  for  some 
minutes,  to  Mr.  Chick's  great  terror.  "I  can  bear  to 
resign  Paul's  confidence  in  favor  of  one  who,  I  hope  and 
trust,  may  be  deserving  of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a 
perfect  right  to  replace  poor  Fanny  if  he  chooses;  I  can 
bear  to  be  informed,  in  Paul's  cool  manner,  of  such  a 
change  in  his  plans,  and  never  to  be  consulted  until  all 
is  settled  and  determined;  but  deceit  I  can  no(  bear,  and 
with  Lueretia  Tox  I  have  done.  It  is  better  as  it  is," 
said  Mrs,  Chick,  piously;  "much  better.  It  would  have 
been  a  long  time  before  I  could  have  accommodated 
myself  comfortably  with  her,  after  this;  and  I  reallf 
don't  know,  as  Paul  is  going  to  be  very  grand,  and  these 
are  people  of  condition,  that  she  would  nave  been  quite 
presentable,  and  might  not  have  compromised  myself. 
There's  a  providence  in  everything;  everything  works 
for  the  best;  I  have  been  tned  to-day,  but,  upon  the 
whole  I  don't  regret  it," 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  441 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes, 
id  smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a  persoD  calm 
ider  a  great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  unworthi- 
)88  no  doubt  took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set 
)wn  at  a  street  comer  and  walking  away,  whistling, 
ith  his  shoulders  very  much  raised,  and  his  hands  in 
s  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she 
sre  a  fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest 
id  a  constant  one,  and  had  ever  borne  a  faithful 
iendship  towards  her  impeacher,  and  had  been  truly 
isorbed  and  swallowed  up  in  devotion  to  the  magnin- 
nce  of  Mr.  Dombey^ while  poor  excommunicated  Miss 
IX  watered  her  plants  with  her  tears,  and  felt  that  it 
IS  winter  in  Frincess's-place. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  INTEBTAL  BEFORE  THE  HARRIAGB. 

i-LTHOUOH  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and 
;  working  world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was  hammer- 
r  and  crashing  and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all 
y  long,  keeping  Diogenes  in  an  incessant  paroxysm 
barking  from  sunrise  to  sunset — evidently  convinced 
it  his  enemy  had  got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and 
,s  then  sacking  the  premises  in  triumphant  defiance 
there  was,  at  first,  no  other  great  change  in  the 
tthod  of  Florence's  life.  At  night,  when  the  work- 
jple  went  away,  the  house  was  dreary  and  deserted 
am;  and  Florence  listening  to  their  voices  echoing 
-ough  the  hall  and  staircase  as  they  departed,  pictured 
herself  the  cheerful  homes  to  which  they  were  re- 
-ning,  and  the  children  who  were  waiting  for  them, 
d  was  glad  to  think  that  they  were  merry  and  well 
^a8ed  to  go. 

3he  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  old 
end,  but  it  came  now  with  an  altered  face,  and  looked 
)re  kindly  on  her.  Fresh  hope  was  in  it.  The  beau- 
ul  lady  who  had  soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very 
am  in  which  her  heart  had  been  so  wrung,  was  a  spirit 


442  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

of  promise  to  her.  Soft  shadows  of  the  brigbt  life 
dawning,  when  her  father's  affection  should  m  grad- 
ually won,  and  all,  or  much  should  be  restored  of  f\aX 
she  nad  lost  on  the  dark  day  when  a  mother's  love  had 
faded  with  a  mother's  last  breath  on  her  cheek,  moved 
about  her  in  the  twilight  and  were  welcome  companj. 
Peeping  at  the  rosy  children,  her  neighbors,  it  was  a 
new  and  precious  sensation  to  think  that  they  might 
soon  spealc  together  and  know  each  other:  wnen  she 
would  not  fear,  as  of  old,  to  show  herself  before  then 
lest  they  should  be  grieved  to  see  her  in  her  black  dress 
sitting  there  alone! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love 
and  trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  towards  her,  Flor- 
ence loved  her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She 
had  no  fear  of  setting  up  a  rival  in  her  breast  Thi' 
new  flower  sprang  from  the  deep  planted  and  long- 
cherished  root,  she  knew.  Every  gentle  word  that  had 
fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  lady  sounded  to 
Florence  like  an  echo  of  the  voice  long  hushed  and 
silent.  How  could  she  love  that  memory  less  for  living 
tenderness,  when  it  was  her  memory  of  all  parental  ten- 
derness and  love! 

Florence  was,  one  day,  sitting  reading  in  her  room, 
and  thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon— 
for  her  book  turned  on  a  kindred  subject — when,  raising 
her  eyes,  she  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway, 

"  Mama!  "  cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her. 
"Come  again! " 

"  Not  mama  yet,"  returned  the  lady,  with  a  serioos 
smile,  as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  arm. 

"  But  very  soon  to  be,"  cried  Florence. 

"Very  soon  now,  Florence;  very  soon," 

Edith  bent  her  head  a  little  so  as  to  press  the  bloom- 
ing cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  find  for  sodip 
few  moments  remained  thus  silent.  There  was  some- 
thing so  very  tender  in  her  manner  that  Florence  was 
even  more  sensible  of  it  than  on  the  first  occasion  of 
their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a  chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down: 
Florence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  its 
beauty,  and  wilbngly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

'•  Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I  waa  be" 
last?" 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  448 

"Oh  yes!"  Bmiled  Florence,  hftstilj. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes;  for  her  new 
aama  was  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  the  look  -was 
Qtentiy  and  thoughtf uEy  fired  ujion  her  face. 

"  I — ^I — am  used  to  be  alone,"  said  Florence.  "  I  don't 
lind  it  at  all.  Di  and  I  pass  whole  days  together,  some- 
lines."  Florence  might  have  said  whole  weeks  and 
lonths. 

"  Is  Di  your  maid,  love?" 

"  My  doK,  mama,"  said  Florence,  laughing.  "  Susan 
!  my  maia." 

"And  these  are  your  rooms,"  said  Edith,  looking 
jund.  "  I  was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day. 
Ve  must  have  them  imiiroved,  Florence.  They  shall 
e  made  the  prettiest  in  the  house." 

"  If  I  might  change  them,  mama,"  returned  Florence; 

there  \b  one  up-staira  I  should  like  much  better." 

"Is  this  not  high  enough,  deargirlp"  asked  Edith, 
(ttiling. 

"  The  other  was  my  brother's  room,"  said  Florence, 

and  I  am  very  fond  of  it.  I  would  have  spoken  to 
apa  about  it  when  I  came  home,  and  found  the  work- 
len  here,  and  everything  changing;  but — '' 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should 
take  her  falter  again. 

"  But  I  was  afraid  it  might  distress  him;  and  as  you 
lid  you  would  be  here  again  soon,  mama,  and  are  the 
listress  of  everything,  1  determined  to  take  courage 
ad  ask  you." 

E^ith  sat  looking  at  hei^  with  her  brilliant  eyes  intent 
pon  her  face,  until  Florence  raising  her  own,  she,  in 
er  turn,  withdrew  her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the 
round.  It  was  then  that  Florence  thought  how  differ- 
at  this  lady's  beauty  was  from  what  she^had  sup- 
:>Bed.  She  liad  thougnt  it  of  a  proud  and  lofty  kind; 
et  her  manner  was  so  subdued  and  gentle  that,  if  she 
ad  been  of  Florence's  own  age  and  character,  it 
larcely  could  have  invited  confidence  more, 

£xcept  when  a  constrained  and  singular  reserve 
rept  over  her;  and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence 
ardly  understood  this,  though  she  could  not  choose 
ut  notice  it.  and  think  about  it)  as  if  she  were  humbled 
efore  Florence,  and  ill  at  ease.  When  she  had  said 
tiat  she  was  not  her  mama  yet,  and  when  Florence  had 


444  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

called  her  the  mistresa  of  everything  there,  this  chan 
in  her  was  quick  and  startling;  and  now,  while  the  e; 
of  Florence  rested  on  her  face,  she  sat  as  though  ) 
would  have  shrunk  and  hidden  from  her,  rather  tDan 
one  about  to  love  and  cherish  her  in  right  of  aucl 
near  connexion. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise  about  her  n 
room,  and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  t 
self.  She  then  asked  some  questions  concerning  p 
Paul;  and  when  they  had  sat  in  conversation  for  bo 
time  told  Florence  sue  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  o 
home. 

"We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and 
said  Edith,  "and  you  shall  stay  witti  us  until  I 
married.  I  wish  that  we  should  know  and  trust  « 
other,  Florence." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"'  said  Florence,  "d 
mama.     How  much  I  thank  you!" 

"  Let  me  say  now,  for  itmay  bethebestopportunil 
continued  Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  n 

Juite  alone,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "that  w! 
am  married,  and  have  gone  away  for  some  week 
shall  be  easier  at  heart  if  you  will  come  home  here, 
matter  who  invites  you  to  stay  elsewhere,  come  hi 
here.  It  is  better  to  be  alone  than — what  I  would 
is,"  she  added,  checking  herself,  "  that  I  know  well 
are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence." 

"I  will  come  home  on  the  very  day,  mama." 
"  Do  so.    I  rely  on  that  promise.    Now,  prepar 
come  with  me,  dear  girl,    Yoft  will  find  me  down-st 
when  you  are  ready. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  al 
through  the  mansion  of  ■miich  she  was  so  soon  t< 
the  lady:  and  little  heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegs 
and  splendor  it  began  to  display.  The  same  indon 
ble  haughtiness  of  soul,  the  same  proud  scorn  expret 
in  eye  and  lip,  the  same  fierce  beauty,  only  tamed  I 
sense  of  itij  own  little  worth,  and  of  the  httle  wortl 
everything  around  it,,  went  through  the  grand  sale 
and  nails,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees, 
rt^ed  and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on 
walls  and  floors  were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns  1 
tore  her  breast;  in  every  scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to 
eye  she  saw  some  hateful  atom  of  her  purchase-moi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  445 

the  broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at  full  length,  a 
woman  with  a  noble  quality  yet  dwelling  in  her  nature, 
who  was  too  false  to  her  "better  self,  and  too  debasea 
ind  lost  to  save  herself.  She  believed  that  all  this  was 
w  plain,  more  or  less,  to  all  eyes,  that  she  had  no  re- 
wurce  or  power  of  self-assertion  but  in  pride:  and  with 
ihis  pride,  T^ch  tortured  her  own  heart  night  and  day, 
theiought  her  fate  out,  braved  it,  and  defied  it. 

Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence — an  innocent 
fill,  strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth — 
«uld  80  impress  and  quell,  that  by  her  side  she  was 
mother  creature,  with  her  tempest  of  passion  hushed, 
ind  her  very  pride  itself  subdued?  Was  this  the  woman 
rho  now  sat  beside  her  in  a  carriage,  with  her  anns 
ntwined,  and  who,  while  she  courted  and  entreated 
er  to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head  to  nestle  on 
er  breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to  shield  it 
^)m  wrong  or  harm? 

Oh,  Edith!  it  were  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a  time! 
etter  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith,  than 
I  live  on  to  the  end! 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of 
lything  rather  than  of  such  sentiments — for,  like  many 
mteel  persons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she 
it  her  face  against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to 
le  mention  oi  any  such  low  and  levelling  upstart — had 
)rrowed  a  house  in  Brook-street,  Grosvenor-square, 
om  a  stately  relative  (one  of  the  Feenix  brood)  who 
as  out  of  town,  and  who  did  not  object  to  lending  it, 
.  the  handsomest  manner,  for  nuptial  purposes,  as  the 
an  implied  his  final  release  and  acquittance  frofti  all 
irtber  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daugh- 
r.  It  being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the  family  to 
Ake  a  handsome  appearance  at  such  a  time,  Mrs. 
cewton,  with  the  assistance  of  an  accommodating 
adesman  resident  in  the  parish  of  Mary-le-bone,  who 
nt  out  all  sorts  of  articles  to  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
om  a  service  of  plate  to  an  army  of  footmen,  clapped 
ito  this  house  a  silver-headed  butler  (who  was  charged 
rtra  on  that  accougt,  as  having  the  appearance  of  an 
icient  family  retainer),  two  very  tall  young  men  in 
very,  and  a  select  staff  of  kitchen  servants;  so  that  a 
gend  arose,  down-stairs,  that  Withers  the  Page,  re- 
ased  at  once  from  his  numerous  household  duties,  and 


«6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

from  the  propulsioD  of  the  wheeled-chair  {mcouawunl 
with  the  metropolis),  had  been  several  times  obeened 
to  rub  his  eyes  and  pinch  his  limbs  as  if  be  misdoubted 
his  having  overslept  himself  at  the  Leamington  milk- 
man's, and  being  still  in  a  celestial  dream.  A  variety 
of  requisites  in  plate  and  china  being  also  conveyed  to 
the  same  establishmeDt  from  the  same,  coDTenienl 
source,  with  several  miscellaneous  articles,*  including  a 
neat  chariot  and  a  pair  of  bays,  Mrs.  Skewton  cushioned 
herself  on  the  principal  sofa,  in  th6  Cleopatra  attitude, 
and  held  her  court  in  fair  state. 

"And  how,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of 
her  daughter  and  her  charge,  "is  my  charming  Flor- 
ence? ¥ou  must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you 
please,  my  love." 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a  place  in 
the  white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  face  when  that  ladj 
presented  tier  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty. 

"Edith,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "positively,! 
— stand  a  little  more  in  the  light,  my  sweetest  Florence, 
for  a  moment." 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

"  You  don't  remember,  dearest  Edith,"  said  her 
mother,  "what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the 
same  age  as  our  exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a  few 
years  younger?  " 

"  I  have  long  forgotten,  mother." 

"  For  positively,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "I  do 
think  that  I  see  a  decided  resemblance  to  what  yoo 
were  then  in  our  extremely  fascinating  young  friend. 
And  it  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  a  lower  voice, 
which  conveyed  her  opinion  that  Florence  was  in  a  very 
unfinished  state,  "what  cultivation  will  do." 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  was  Edith's  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  feel- 
ing herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a  diversion: 

"  My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  again  imprinted  her 
lips  on  Mrs.  Skewton's  ear.  i 

"And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  "that  your 
papa,  whom  we  all  perfectly  adore  and  dote  upon,  is  to 
be  married  to  mj  dearest  Edith  tbis  day  week. 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  447 

lew  it  woxild  be  very  soon,"  returned  Florence. 
»t  exactly  when." 

darling  Edith,"  urged  her  mother,  gaily,  "  is  it 
f  you  have  not  told  Florence?  " 
y  should  I  tell  Florence?"  she  returned,  so  sud- 
nd  harshly,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe 
he  same  voice. 

jkewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and  safer 
in,  that  her  father  weis  coming  to  dinner,  and 
would  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surprised  to  see 
he  had  spoken  last  nieht  of  dressing  in  the  city, 
1  known  nothing  of  Edith's  design,  the  execution 
3h,  according  to  Mrs,  Skewton's  expectation, 
hrow  him  into  a  perfect  ecstasy.  Florence  was 
1  to  hear  this;  and  her  distress  became  so  keen, 
tinner  hour  approached,  that  if  she  had  known 
frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suffered  to  return  home, 
-,  involving  her  father  in  her  explanation,  she 
lave  hurried  back  on  foot,  bareheaded,  breath- 
d  alone,  rather  than  incur  the  risk  of  meeting 
ileasure. 

le  time  drew  nearer,  she  could  hardly  breathe, 
■ed  not  approach  a  window,  lest  he  should  see 
n  the  street.  She  dared  not  go  up-stairs  to  hide 
ition,  lest,  in  passing  out  at  the  door  she  should 
ira  unexpectedly;  besides  which  dread  she  felt 
igh  she  never  could  come  back  again  if  she 
mimoned  to  his  presence.  In  this  conflict  of 
rs,  she  was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's  couch,  en- 
ng  to  understand  and  to  reply  to  the  bald  dis- 
of  that  lady,  when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the 

ar  him  now!  "  cried  Florence,  starting.     "  He  is 

atra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully 
I,  and  who  In  her  self-engrossment  did  not 
herself  about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed 
e  behind  her  couch,  and  dropped  a  shawl  over 
tparatory  to  giving  Mr.  Dombey  a  rapture  of 
).  It  was  so  quickly  done  that  in  a  moment 
e  heard  his  awful  step  in  the  room, 
iluted  his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  his  in- 
bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled 
the  whole  frame  of  his  child, 


448  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

" My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "come  here  and 
tell  me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

"  Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
towards  the  couch. 

"At  home?" 

"  At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  with  be- 
witchmg  vivacity;  "Now  are  you  sure  you  are  not  de- 
ceiving me?  I  don't  know  what  my  dearest  Edith  will 
say  to  me  when  I  make  such  a  declaration,  but  upon 
my  honor  I  am  afraid  you  are  the  falsest  of  men,  my 
dear  Dombey." 

Though  he  had  been;  and  had  been  detected  on  the 
spot  in  the  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said 
or  done,  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted 
than  he  was  when  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl 
away  and  Florence,  pale  and  trembling,  rose  before  him 
like  a  ghost.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind  when  Florence  had  run  up  to  him,  clasped  her 
hands  round  his  neck,  kissed  his  face,  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room.  He  looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the  matter  to 
somebody  else,  but  Edith  had  gone  after  Florence,  in- 
stantly, 

"  Now,  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,  "said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  "  that  you  never  was  more  sur- 
priaed  and  pleased  in  your  life." 

"  I  never  was  more  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dombev. 

"Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey?"  returned  Mrs. 
Skewton,  holding  up  her  fan. 

"I — yes,  I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence 
here,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  He  appeared  to  consider 
gravely  about  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  more 
decidedly,  "  Yes,  I  really  am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet 
Florence  here." 

"  You  wonder  how  she  comes  here?"  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  "don't  you?" 

"  Edith,  perhaps — "  su^^sted  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Ah!  wicked  guesser!  replied  Cleopatra,  shaking 
her  head.  "  Ah!  cunning,  cunning  man!  One  shouldn  t 
tell  these  things;  your  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so 
vain,  and  so  apt  to  abuse  our  weaknesses:  out,  you 
know  my  open  soul — very  well;  immediately." 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  young  men 
who  announced  dinuer. 

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Digiiizcdt*  Google 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  449 

i  E>lith,  mv  dear  Dombej,"  she  continued  in  a 
r,  "  when  ^e  cannot  have  you  near  her — and  as 
er,  she  cannot  expect  that  always — will  at  least 
ear  her  something  or  somebody  belonging  to  you. 
low  extremely  natural  that  is!  And  in  this  spirit, 
r  would  keep  her  from  riding  off  to-day  to  fetch 
iing  Florence.    Well,  how  excessively  charming 

le  waited  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Dombey  answered, 
ently  so." 

3s  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of 
'  cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.  "But  I 
wing  too  serious!  Take  me  down-stairs,  like  an 
md  let  us  see  what  these  people  intend  to  give  us 
ler.  Bless  you,  dear  Dombey! " 
latra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  brisk- 
ter  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her  arm 
md  led  her  ceremoniously  down-stairs;  one  of  the 
11  young  men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of  veneration 
perfectly  developed,  thrusting  his  tongue  into  his 

or  the  entertainment  of  the  other  very  tall  young 
1  hire,  as  the  couple  turned  into  the  dming-room. 
nee  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting 
side,  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her  father 
i,  to  resign  her  chair  to  him;  but  Edith  openly  put 
id  upon  her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  an  op- 
ilace  at  the  round  table. 

conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by 
:ewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes, 
ey  should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears;  far  less 
to  speak;  and  Edith  never  uttered  one  word, 

in  answer  to  a  question.  Verily,  Cleopatra 
I  hard  for  the  establishment  that  was  so  nearly 
d;  and  verily  it  should  have  been  a  rich  one  to 

her! 

i  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last, 
tr  Dombey?  said  Cleopatra,  when  the  dessert 
it  upon  the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler 
thdrawn.  "Even  the  lawyer's  preparations!  " 
i,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey;  "the  deed  of 
ent,  the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is 
ady,  and  as  I  was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has 

do  us  the  favor  to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its 
on." 


460  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Edith  sat  like  a  bandBome  statue;  as  cold,  as  Bilent, 
and  as  still. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  do  you  hear 
what  Mr.  Dombey  says?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey! "  aside 
to  that  gentleman,  "How  her  absence,  as  the  time  ap- 
proaches, reminds  me  of  the  days  when,  that  most 
agreeable  of  creatures,  her  papa,  was  in  your  situation!" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  suggest.     It  shml  be  when  you 

S'ease,"  said  Edith,  scarcely  looking  over  the  table  at 
r,  Dombey. 

"To-morrow?"  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please." 

"Or  would  next  day,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "suit  your 
engagements  better?" 

"  I  nave  no  engagementB,  I  am  always  at  your  dis- 
posal.    Xiet  it  be  when  you  like." 

"No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith!"  remonstrated  her 
mother,  "  when  you  are  in  a  most  terrible  state  of  flurry 
all  day  long,  and  have  a  thousand  and  one  appoint- 
ments with  &\l  sorts  of  tradespeople! " 

"  They  are  of  your  making,^'  returned  Edith,  turning 
on  her,  with  a  slight  contraction  of  her  brow.  '•  You 
and  Mr.  Dombey  can  arrange  between  you." 

"  Very  true  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of 
you!"  said  Cleopatra.  "  My  darling  Florence,  you  must 
really  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please,  my 
dear! " 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in 
Florence  hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  eveiy 
dialogue  in  which  Edith  had  a  share,  however  trifling! 
Florence  had  certainly  never  undergone  so  much  em- 
bracing, and  perhaps  had  never  been,  unconsciously,  so 
useful  in  her  life. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarrelling,  in  his  own 
breast,  with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  betrothed.  He 
had  that  good  reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtineeB 
and  coldness  which  is  found  in  a  fellow-feeling.  It 
flattered  him  to  think  bow  these  deferred  to  htm,  in 
Edith's  case,  and  seemed  to  have  no  will  apart  from 
his.  It  flattered  him  to  picture  to  himself  this  proud 
and  stately  woman  doing  the  honors  of  his  house,  and 
chilling  his  guests  after  nis  own  manner.  The  dignity 
of  Dombey  and  Son  would  be  heightened  and  main- 
tained, inaeed,  in  such  hands. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  4fil 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  alone  at 
t^fae  dining- table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future 
fortuneB:  finding  no  uncongeniality  in  an  air  of  scant 
and  gloomy  state  that  pervaded  tne  room,  in  color  a 
dark  brown,  with  black  natchments  of  pictures  blotch- 
ing the  walls,  and  twenty-four  black  chairs  with  almost 
as  many  nails  in  them,  as  so  many  coffins  waiting  like 
mutes  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Turkey  carpet;  and 
two  exnausted  negroes  holding  up  two  withered 
branches  of  candelabra  on  the  eiaeboard,  and  a  musty 
smell  prevailing  as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners 
were  entombed  m  the  sarcophagus  below  it.  The  owner 
of  the  house  lived  much  abroad;  the  air  of  England  sel- 
dom agreed  long  with  a  member  of  the  Feenix  family: 
and  the  room  had  gradually  put  itself  into  deeper  and 
Btill  deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was  become  so 
funereal  as  to  want  nothing  but  a  body  in  it  to  be  quite 
complete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in 
his  unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr,  Dombey 
looked  down  into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  ma- 
hogany on  which  the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at 
anchor;  as  if  the  subjects  of  his  thoughts  were  rising 
towards  the  surface  one  by  one,  and  plunging  down 
again.  Edith  was  there  in  all  her  majesty  of  brow  and 
figure;  and  close  to  her  came  Florence,  with  her  timid 
head  turned  to  him,  as  it  had  been,  for  an  instant, 
when  she  left  the  room;  and  Edith's  eyes  upon  her, 
and  Edith's  hand  put  out  protectingly.  A  litue  figure 
in  a  low  arm-chair  came  springing  next  into  the 
li^ht,  and  looked  upon  him  wonderingly,  with  its 
bright  eyes  and  its  old-young  face  gleaming  as  in  the 
fiicKering  of  an  evening  fire.  Again  came  Florence 
close  upon  it,  and  absorbed  his  whole  attention. 
Whether  as  a  foredoomed  difficulty  and  disappoint- 
ment to  him;  whether  as  a  rival  who  had  crossed 
him  in  his  way,  and  might  again;  whether  as  his 
child,  of  whom,  in  his  successful  wooing,  he  could 
stoop  to  think,  as  claiming,  at  such  a  time,  to  be  no 
jnoxe  estranged;  or  whether  as  a  bint  to  him  that  the 
mere  appearance  of  caring  for  his  own  blood  should 
be  maintained  in  his  new  relations;  he  best  knew. 
Indifferently  well,  perhaps,  at  best;  for  marriage  com- 
pany and  marriage  altars,  and  ambitious  scenes — still 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


452  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

blotted  here  and  there  with  Florence — always  Florence 
— turned  up  80  fast,  and  so  confusedly,  that  he  rose, 
and  went  up-stairs,  to  escape  them,. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  were  brought; 
for  at  present  they  made  Mrs.  SIcewton's  head  ache,  Bhe 
complained;  and  in  the  meantime  Florence  and  Mrs. 
Skewton  talked  together  (Cleopatra  being  very  anxiooB 
to  keep  her  close  to  herself),  or  Florence  touched  the 
piano  softly  for  Mrs.  Skewton's  delight;  to  make  no 
mention  of  a  few  occasions  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
when  that  affectionate  lady  -was  impelled  to  solicit  an- 
other kiss,  and  which  always  happened  after  Edith  had 
said  anything.  They  were  not  many,  however,  for 
Edith  sat  apart  by  aii  open  window  during  the  whole 
time  (in  spite  of  her  mother's  fears  that  she  would  take 
cold),  and  remained  there  until  Mr.  Dombey  took  leaTS. 
He  was  serenely  gracious  to  Florence  when  he  did  bo; 
and  Florence  went  to  bed  in  a.  room  within  Edith's,  so 
happy  and  hopeful,  that  she  thought  of  her  late  self  as 
if  It  were  some  other  poor  deserted  girl  who  was  to  he 
pitied  for  her  sorrow;  and  in  her  pity,  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.  There  were  drives  to  milliners, 
dressmakers,  jewellers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry-cooks; 
and  Florence  was  always  of  the  party.  Florence  was 
to  go  to  the  wedding.  Florence  was  to  cast  off  her 
mourning,  and  to  wear  a  brilliant  dress  on  the  occasion. 
The  milliner's  intentions  on  the  subject  of  this  dress— 
the  milliner  was  a  Frenchwoman,  ana  greatly  resembled 
Mrs,  Skewton — were  so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  bespoke  one  like  it  for  herself.  The  mUliner 
said  it  would  become  her  to  admiration,  and  that  all  the 
world  would  take  her  for  the  young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and 
cared  for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and 
were  tried  on,  and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs. 
Skewton  and  the  milliners,  and  were  put  away  without 
a  word  from  her,  Mrs.  Skewton  made  their  plans  for 
eveiy  day,  and  executed  them.  Sometimes  Edith  sat 
in  the  carriage  when  they  went  to  make  purchases; 
sometimes,  when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  she'went 
into  the  shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  conducted  the  whole 
business,  whatever  it  happened  to  be;  and  Edith  looked 
on  as  uninterested  and  with  as  much  apparent  indiffer- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  463 

eace  as  if  she  had  do  concern  in  it.  Florence  might 
perhaps  have  thought  she  was  haughty  and  listless,  out 
that  wie  was  never  so  to  her.  So  Florence  quenched 
her  wonder  in  her  gratitude  whenever  it  broke  out,  and 
Soon  subdued  it. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  winged  its  flight 
a\pay.  The  last  night  of  the  week,  the  night  before  the 
tiarriage,  was  come.  In  the  dark  room — for  Mrs,  Skew- 
ton's  head  was  no  better  yet,  though  she  expected  to 
recover  permanently  to-morrow — were  that  lady,  Edith, 
and  Mr.  Dombey.  Edith  was  at  her  open  window  look- 
ing out  into  the  street;  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cleopatra  were 
talking  softly  on  the  sofa.  It  was  growing  late;  and 
Florence,  being  fatigued,  had  gone  to  bed. 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "you  will  leave 
me  Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  my 
Bweetest  Edith." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  he  would,  with  pleasure, 

*'  To  have  her  about  me,  here,  wnile  you  are  both  at 
Paris,  and  to  think  that,  at  her  age,  I  am  assisting  in 
the  formation  of  her  mind,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cle- 
opatra, "will  be  a  perfect  balm  to  me  in  the  extremely 
shattered  state  to  which  I  shall  be  reduced." 

Edith  turned  her  head  suddenly.  Her  listless  manner 
was  exchanged,  in  a  moment,  to  one  of  burning  inter- 
est, and,  unseen  in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to 
their  conversation. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  in 
such  admirable  guardianship, 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "  a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I  feared  you  were  going, 
with  malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say 
— those  horrid  proses! — to  condemn  me  to  utter  soli- 
tude." 

"Why  dome  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  posi- 
tivelj'  she  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  returned  Cleopa- 
tra, "that  I  began  to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey, 
you  were  quite  a  Bashaw." 

*'  I  assure  you,  madam! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have 
laid  no  commands  on  Florence;  and  if  I  had,  there  are 
no  conunands  like  your  wish." 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  replied    Cleopatra,    "  what   a 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


tB4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

courtier  you  are!  Though  I'll  not  say  so,  either;  tot 
courtiers  nave  no  heart,  and  yours  pervades  your  cham- 
ing  life  and  character.  And  are  you  really  going  so 
early,  my  dear  Dombeyl" 

Oh,  indeed!  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dombey  feared  be 
must. 

"  Is  this  a  fact,  or  is  it  all  a  dream!"  lisped  Cleopatra. 
"  Can  I  believe,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  com- 
ing back  to-morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  sweet 
companion;  my  own  Edith! 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  things  lit- 
erally, reminded  Mrs.  Skewton  that  they  were  to  meet 
first  at  the  church. 

"  The  pang,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  of  consigning  a 
child,  even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most 
excruciating  imaginable;  and,  combined  with  a  natu- 
rally delicate  constitution,  and  the  extreme  stupiditj 
of  the  pastry-cook  who  has  undertaken  the  breakfast, 
is  almost  too  much  for  my  poor  strength.  But  I  shall 
rally,  my  dear  Dombey,  m  the  morning;  do  not  fear 
for  me,  or  be  uneasy  on  my  account.  Heaven  bless 
you!  My  dearest  Edith!"  she  cried  archly.  "Some- 
body is  going,  pet." 

Edith,  who  had  turned  her  head  again  towards  the 
window,  and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had 
ceased,  rose  up  in  her  place,  but  made  no  advance 
towards  him,  and  said  nothing.  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
lofty  gallantry  adapted  to  his  dignity  and  the  occasion, 
betook  bis  creaking  boots  towards  her,  put  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  said,  "  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  have 
the  happiness  of  claiming  this  hand  as  Mrs,  Dombey's," 
and  bowed  himself  solemnly  out, 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  house- 
door  had  closed  upon  him.  With  the  candles  appeared 
her  maid,  with  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude 
the  world  to-morrow.  The  dress  had  savage  retribution 
in  it,  as  such  dresses  ever  have,  and  made  Tier  infinitely 
older  and  more  hideous  than  her  greasy  flannel-gown. 
But  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it  on  with  mincing  satisfaction; 
smirked  at  her  cadaverous  self  in  the  glass,  as  she 
thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the  major;  and  suffer- 
ing her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to  prepare  her  fof 
repose,  tumbled  into  ruins  like  a  house  of  pamted  cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  456 

looking  out  into  the  street.  When  she  and  her  mother 
^ere  at  last  left  fflone,  she  moved  from  it  for  the  first 
titue  that  evening,  and  came  opposite  to  her.  The 
yawning,  shaking,  peevish  figure  of  the  mother,  with 
fier  eves  raised  to  confront  the  proud  erect  form  of  the 
daughter,  whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent  downward 
Upon  her,  had  a  conscious  air  upon  it  that  no  levity  or 
temper  could  conceal. 

"I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  she.  "You  can't  be 
trusted  for  a  moment.  Tou  are  worse  than  a  child. 
Child!  No  child  would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  un- 
dutiful." 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  passing  these 
words  by  with  a  scorn  that  would  not  descend  to  trifle 
^th  them.  "You  must  remain  alone  here  until  I 
etum. " 

"  Must  remain  alone  here,  EMith,  until  you  return?" 
epeated  her  mother, 

"  Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I  shall  call  to-morrow 
o  witness  what  I  do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  I 
wear  I  will  refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church, 
f  I  do  not,  may  I  fall  dead  upon  the  pavement! " 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  quick  alarm,  in 
lO  degree  diminished  by  the  look  she  met. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  steadily,  "that  we  are 
/hat  vfe  are.  I  will  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged 
own  to  my  level.  I  will  have  no  guileness  nature  un- 
lermined,  corrupted,  and  perverted,  to  amuse  the  lei- 
ure  of  a  world  of  mothers.  You  know  my  meaning. 
I'lorence  must  go  home." 

"  You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,"  cried  her  angry  mother. 
'  Do  you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that 
iouse  till  she  is  married,  and  away? " 

"Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I  ever  expect  peace  in 
hat  house,"  said  her  daughter,  "and  you  know  the 
nswer." 

"And  am  I  to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and 
ibor,  and  when  you  are  going,  through  me  to  be  ren- 
ered  independent."  her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  lier 
<assion,  while  her  palsied  head  shook  like  a  leaf,  "  that 
here  is  corruption  and  contagion  in  me,  and  that  I  am 
lot  fifcompany  for  a  girl!  What  are  you,  pray?  What 
,re  you?" 

""  I  have  put  the  question  to  myself,"  said  Edith,  ashy 


456  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

pale,  and  poiutiDg  to  the  window,  "  more  than  once 
when  I  have  been  Bitting  there,  and  something  in  the 
faded  likenesB  of  my  sex  has  wandered  past  outside; 
and  God  knows  I  have  met  with  my  reply.  Oh  mother, 
mother,  if  you  had  but  left  me  to  my  natural  heart 
when  I  too  was  a  girl — a  younger  girl  than  Florence- 
how  different  I  might  have  been! " 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here, 
her  mother  restrained  herself,  and  fell  a  ^vhimperiog. 
and  bewailed  that  she  bad  lived  too  long,  and  that  her 
only  child  had  cast  her  off,  and  that  duty  towards 
parents  was  forgotten  in  these  evil  days,  and  that  she 
had  heard  unnatural  taunts,  and  cared  for  life  no  longer. 

"  If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes 
like  these,"  she  whined,  "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  much 
better  for  me  to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an  end 
to  my  existence.  Oh!  The  idea  of  your  bein^  my 
daughter,  Edith,  and  addressing  ^e  in  such  a  strain!" 

"Between  us,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  mournfully, 
"the  time  for  mutual  reproaches  is  past." 

"Then  why  do  you  revive  it?"  whimpered  her  mother. 
"  You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in  the  cruellest 
manner.  You  know  how  sensitive  I  am  to  unkindness. 
At  such  a  moment,  too,  when  I  have  so  much  to  think 
of,  and  am  naturally  anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage! I  wonder  at  you,  Edith.  To  make  your 
mother  a  fright  upon  your  wedding-day!" 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she 
sobbed  and  rubbed  her  eyes;  and  said  in  the  same  low 
steady  voice,  which  had  neither  risen  nor  fallen  since 
she  first  addressed  her,  "  I  have  said  that  Florence 
must  go  home," 

"Let  her  go!"  cried  the  afflicted  and  affrighted 
parent,  hastily.  "I  am  sure  I  am  willing  she  should 
go.    "What  is  the  girl  to  me? " 

"She  is  so  much  to  me  that  rather  than  communi- 
cate, or  suffer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  o( 
the  evil  that  is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I  would  renounce 
you,  as  I  would  (if  you  gave  me  cause)  renounce  him  in 
the  church  to-morrow,''  replied  Edith.  "Leave  her 
alone.  She  shall  not,  while  I  can  interpose,  be  tam- 
pered with  and  tainted  by  the  lessons  I  nave  learned. 
This  is  no  hard  condition  on  this  bitter  night." 

"  If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a  filial  manner,  Edith." 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON..  437 

whined  her  mother,  "perhaps    not;   very  likely  not. 
But  such  extremely  cutting  words — 

"  They  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  ub  now,"  said 
Edith.     "Take  you  own  way,  mother;   share  as  you 


please  in  what  you  have  gained;  spend,  enjoy,  make 
much  of  it;  and  be  as  happy  as  you  will.  The  object 
of  our  lives  is  won.     Henceforth  let  us  wear  it  silently. 


My  lips  are  closed  upon  the  past  from  this  hour.  1  for- 
give you  your  part  in  to-morrow's  wickedness.  May 
God  forgive  my  ownl " 

Without  a  trembr  in  her  voice  or  frame,  and  passing 
onward  with  a  foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every 
soft  emotion,  she  bade  her  mother  good  night,  and  re- 
paired to  her  own  room. 

But  not  to  rest:  for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  tumult  of 
her  agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and  fro, 
and  to  and  fro  again,  five  hundred  times,  among  the 
splendid  preparations  for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow; 
with  her  dark  hair  shaken  down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
with  a  raging  light,  her  broad  white  bosom  red  with 
the  cruel  grasp  of  the  relentless  hand  with  which  she 
spumed  it  from  her,  pacing  up  and  down  with  an 
averted  head,  as  if  she  would  avoid  the  sight  of  her 
own  fair  person,  and  divorce  herself  from  its  compan- 
ionship. Thus,  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night  before  her 
bridal,  Edith  Granger  wrestled  with  her  unquiet  spirit, 
tearless,  friendless,  silent,  proud,  and  uncomplaining. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  ojwn  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence,  in 
her  bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith 
held  her  breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  towards  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet;  at  last,  drawn  so 
near,  that  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the 
gentle  hand  that  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  put  it, softly 
to  her  neck.  Its  touch  was  like  the  prophet's  rod  of 
old  upon  the  rock.  Her  tears  sprunff  forth  beneath  it, 
as  she  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  laid  her  aching  head 
and  streaming  hair  upon  the  pillow  by  its  side. 

Thus  Edith  Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bri- 
daL     Thus  the  sun  found  her  on  her  Bridal  morning. 

END  OF  vol*  I.  ,-.        , 


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OMBEY  AND  SON. 


BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 

VOL.  II. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  H.  K.  BROWBE. 


BOSTON; 

PERRY   MASON   &  CO. 

TEMPLE  PLACE. 
1884. 


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XXVI.  Sii:vi;iti.L  Peofli:  ])>:LinllTi;l>,  aK]>  Tiit:   Gauk  CiilcKliN 

XXVII.  Amotukb  Wediiing M 

XXVIII.  After  A  I,Ai-SE S'U 

XXIX.  Hktuiuution *10 

XXX,  CiiikflvMatiiiboniat, «l 

XXXI.  Kelknting 4M 

XXXII.  Final  *5S 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE   WEDDING. 


,WN,  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shiver- 

0  the  church  lieneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little 
and  his  mother,  and  looks  in  at  the  windows.     It 

Id  and  dark.  Night  crouches  yet,  upon  the  pave- 
;,  and  broods,  sombre  and  heavy,  in  nooks  and 
3r8  of  the  building.  The  steeple-clock,  perched  up 
e  the  bouses,  emerging  from  beneath  another  of 
ountless  ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  regularly 
and  break  on  the  eternal  shore,  is  greyly  visible, 
a  stone  beacon,  recording  how  the  sea  flows  on; 
within  doors,  dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night, 
see  that  it  is  there. 
'vering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in, 

1  moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign,  and  its  tears 
le  on  the  window-glass,  and  the  trees  against  the 
ch-wall  bow  their  heads,  and  wring  their  many 
s  in  sympathy.  Night,  growing  pale  before  it, 
ually  fades  out  of  the  church,  but  lingers  in  the 
;s  below,  and  sits  upon  the  coffins.  And  now  comes 
it  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and  reddening 
pire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of  dawn,  and  stifling 
omplaining^  and  the  sacred  dawn,  following  the 
t,  and  chasing  it  from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into 
vaults  itself  and  hides,  with  a  frightened  face, 
ig  the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to  drive 
t. 

id  now,  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the 
er-books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  with  the 

'■"  Coogic 


8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hassocks,  more  worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human 
knees,  hide  their  bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  ^ther 
close  together  in  affright  at  the  resounding  clashing  of 
the  church-door.  For  the  beadle,  that  man  of  power, 
comes  early  this  morning  with  the  sexton;  and  Mrs.  Miff, 
the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — a  mighty  dry  old  lady, 
sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  anywhere 
ivbouther — is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at  the 
church-gate  half-an-hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the 
beadle, 

A  vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a  mortified  bon- 
net, and  eke  a  thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings. 
Beckoning  to  stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given 
Mrs.  Miff  an  air  of  mystery;  and  there  is  reservation  in 
the  eye  of  Mrs.  Miff,  as  always  knowingof  a  softer  seat, 
but  having  her  suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no  such 
fact  as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been  these  twenty  years, 
and  Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to  him.  He  beld 
some  bad  opinions,  it  would  seem,  about  free-seats; 
and  though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes  he  may  be  gone  upward, 
she  couldn't  positively  undertake  to  say  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  tnis  morning  at  the  church  door, 
beating  and  dusting  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the 
cushions;  and  much  has  Mrs,  Miff  to  say  about  the 
wedding  they  are  going  to  have,  Mrs.  Miff  is  told  that 
the  new  furniture  and  alterations  in  the  house  cost  full 
five  thousand  pound  if  they  cost  a  penny;  and  Mrs. 
Miff  has  heard,  upon  the  best  authority,  tnat  the  lady 
hasn't  got  a  sixpence  wherewithal  to  bless  herseii. 
Mrs,  Miff  remembers,  likewise,  as  if  it  had  happened 
yesterday,  tlie  first  wife's  funeral,  and  then  the  chris- 
tening, and  then  the  other  funeral :  and  Mrs.  Miff  ears, 
by-the-by,  she'll  soap-and-water  that  'ere  tablet  pres- 
ently, against  the  company  arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the 
beaale,  who  is  sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  church-steps 
all  this  time  (and  seldom  does  anything  else,  except,  m 
cold  weather,  sitting  by  the  fire),  approves  of  Mrs. 
MifPs  discourse,  and  asks  if  Mrs.  M^n  has  heard  it 
Baid  that  the  lady  is  uncommon  handsome?  The  in- 
formation Mrs,  Miff  has  received  being  of  this  nature, 
Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  who,  though  orthodox  and  cor- 
pulent, is  still  an  admirer  of  female  beauty,  observes, 
with  unction,  yes,  he  hears  she  is  a  spanker — an  exiircs- 
sion  that  seems  somewhat  forcible  to  Mrs.    Miff,  or 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3 

■would  from  any  lips  but  those  of  Mr.  Sownds  the 
beadle. 

In  Mr.  Domhey's  ht>use,  at  this  same  time,  there  is 
gre&t  stir  and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women; 
not  one  of  whom  has  had  a  wink  of  sleep  since  four 
o'clock,  and  all  of  whom  were  full  dressed  before  six. 
Mr,  Towlinson  is  an  object  of  greater  consideration  than 
usual  to  the  housemaid,  and  the  cook  says  at  breakfast- 
time  that  one  wedding  makes  many,  which  the  house- 
maid can't  believe,  and  don't  think  true  at  all.  Mr. 
Towlinson  reserves  his  sentiments  on  this  question; 
being  rendered  something  gloomy  by  the  engagement 
of  a  foreigner  with  whiskers  (Mr.  Towlinson  is  whis- 
kerlesB  himself),  who  has  been  hired  to  accompany  the 
happy  pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  busy  packing  the  new 
chariot.  In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson 
admits,  presently,  that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that 
ever  come  of  foreigners;  and  being  charged  by  the 
ladies  with  prejudice,  says,  look  at  Bonaparte,  who  was 
at  the  head  of  'em,  and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to! 
Which  the  housemaid  says  is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room 
in  Brook-street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy 
looking  on.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already 
smells  of  sherry,  and  his  eyes  have  a  tendency  to  be- 
come fixed  in  his  head,  and  to  stare  at  objects  without 
seeing  them.  The  very  tall  young  man  is  conscious  of 
this  failing  in  himself;  and  informs  his  comrade  that  it's 
his  "exciseman."  The  very  tall  young  man  would  say 
excitement,  but  his  speech  is  hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  nave  got  scent  of  the 
marriage;  and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too;  and 
a  brass  hand  too.  The  first  are  practising  in  a  back  set- 
tlement near  Battlebridge;  the  second  put  themselves 
in  communication,  through  their  chief,  with  Mr.  Tow- 
linson, to  whom  they  offer  terms  to  be  bought  off;  and 
the  third,  in  the  person  of  an  artful  trombone,  lurks  and 
dodges  round  the  comer,  waiting  for  some  traitor  trades- 
man to  reveal  the  place  and  hour  of  breakfast,  for  a 
bribe.  Expectation  and  excitement  extend  further  yet, 
and  take  a  wider  range.  From  Balls  Pond  Mr.  Perch 
brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  spend  the  day  with  Mr.  Domhey's 
servants,  and  accompany  them,  surreptitiously,  to  see 
the  wedding.    In  Mr.  Toots's  lodgings,  Mr.  Toota  a.^lvt'ss 


4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

himself  as  if  he  were  at  least  the  bridegroom:  deter- 
mined to  behold  the  spectacle  in  splendor  from  a  secret 
comer  of  the  gallery,  and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken, 
For  it  is  Mr.  Toots's  desperate  intent  to  point  out  Flor- 
ence to  the  Chicken,  then  and  there,  and  openly  to  say, 
"  Now,  Chicken,  I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer;  the 
friend  I  have  sometimes  mentioned  to  you  is  myself; 
Miss  Dombey  is  the  object  of  my  passion;  what  are 
your  opinions.  Chicken,  in  this  state  of  things,  and 
what,  on  the  spot,  do  you  advise?"  The  so-much-to-be 
astonished  Chicken,  in  the  meanwhile,  dips  hia  beak 
into  a  tanl^rd  of  strong  beer,  in  Mr.  Toots's  kitchen, 
and  pecks  up  two  pounds  of  beefsteaks.  In  Princess's- 
place.  Miss  Tox  is  up  and  doing;  for  she  too,  though  in 
sore  distress,  is  resolved  to  put  a  shilling  in  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  MiflF,  and  see  the  ceremony,  which  has  a  cruel 
fascination  for  her,  from  some  lonely  corner.  The  quai^ 
ters  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman  are  all  alive;  for  Captain 
Cuttle,  in  his  ankle-jacks  and  with  a  huge  shirt  collar, 
is  seated  at  his  breakfast,  listening  to  Boo  the  Grinder 
as  he  reads  the  marriage-service  to  him  beforehand, 
under  orders,  to  the  end  that  the  captain  may  perfectly 
understand  the  solemnity  he  is  about  to  witness:  for 
which  purpose  the  captain  gravely  lays  injunctions  on 
his  chaplain,  from  time  to  time,  to  "  put  about,"  or  to 
"  overhaul  that  'ere  article  again,"  or  to  stick  to  his  own 
duty,  and  leave  the  Amens  to  him,  the  captain;  one  of 
which  he  repeats  whenever  a  pause  is  made  by  Bob  the 
Grinder,  with  sonorous  satisfaction. 

Besi<les  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids 
in  Mr.  Dombey "e  street  alone  have  promised  twenty 
families  of  little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in 
nuptials  dates  from  their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and 
see  the  marriage.  Truly,  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  has 
good  reason  to  feel  himself  in  office,  as  he  suns  bis 
portly  figure  on  the  church  steps,  waiting  for  the 
marriage  hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miff  has  cause  to  pounce 
on  an  unlucky  dwarf  child,  with  a  giant  baby,  who 
peeps  in  at  the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indigna- 
tion! 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad,  expressly 
to  attend  the  marriage.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  man 
about  town,  forty  years  ago:  but  he  is  still  so  juvenile 
in   figure   and   in   mannev,   and   so   well   got   up,   that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  5 

stran"Grs  are  amazed  when  they  discover  latent 
wrinKles  in  his  lordship's  face,  and  crows'  feet  in 
his  ayes;  and  when  they  first  observe  him  not  exactly 
certain  as  he  walks  across  a  room  of  going  quite 
straight  to  where  he  wants  to  go.  But  Cousin  Feenix, 
getting  up  at  half-past  seven  o'clock  or  so,  is  quite  an- 
other thing  from  Cousin  Feenix  got  up:  and  very  dim, 
indeed,  he  looks  while  being  shaved  at  Long's  Hotel, 
in  Bond-street, 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room  amidst  a  gen- 
eral whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who 
disperse  in  all  directions,  with  a  great  rustling  of  skirts, 
except  Mrs,  Perch,  who  being  (but  that  she  always  is)  in 
an  interesting  situation  is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged  to 
face  him,  and  is  ready  to  sink  with  confusion  as  she 
curtseys;— «ciay  Heaven  avert  all  evil  consequences  from 
the  house  of  Perch!  Mr.  Dombey  walks  up  to  the 
drawing-room  to  bide  his  time.  Gorgeous  are  Mr. 
Dombey "s  new  lihie  coat,  fawn-colored  pantaloons, 
and  lilac  waistcoat;  and  a  whisper  goes  about  the 
house  that  Mr.  Dombey'a  hair  is  curled. 

A  double-knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  major, 
who  is  gorgeous  too,  and  wears  a  whole  geranium  in  his 
button-hole,  and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as 
well  the  native  knows. 

"Dombey!"  says  the  major,  putting  out  both  hands, 
"how  are  you?" 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "howareYou?" 

"By  Jove,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "JoeyB.  is  in  such 
case  this  morning,  sir," — and  here  be  liita  himself  hard 
iipon  the  breast — "in  such  case  this  niorning,  sir.  tliat. 
damme,  Dombey,  he  has  half  a  mind  to  make  a  double 
marri^e  of  it,  sir,  and  take  the  mother." 

Mr.  Dombey  smiles;  but  faintly,  even  for  him;  for  Mr. 
Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  related  to  the  mother, 
and  that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not  to  be 
joked  about, 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  seeing  this,  "  I  give  you 
joy.  I  congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir," 
says  the  major,  "  you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day, 
than  any  man  in  England!  " 

Here  again,  Mr.  Dombey 's  assent  is  qualified;  because 
he  is  going  to  confer  a  great  distinction  on  a  lady;  and, 
no  doubt,  she  is  to  be  envied  most. 


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K  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  As  to  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  purBues  the  major,  "  there 
is  not  a  woman  in  all  Europe  but  might — and  would,  sir, 
you  will  allow  Bagstock  to  add — and  would — give  her 
ears,  and  her  ear-rings  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Qrangers 
place. " 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  major,"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  returns  the  major,  "you  know  it.  Let 
us  have  no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  you  know 
it,  or  do  you  not,  Dombey?"  says  the  major,  almost  in  a 
passion. 

'  Oh,  really,  major — " 

"  Damme,  sir,"  retorts  the  major,  "  do  you  know  that 
fact,  or  do  you  not?  Dombey!  Is  old  Joe  your  friend!' 
Are  we  on  that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey, 
that  may  justify  a  man— a  blunt  old  Joseph  B,,  sir— In 
speaking  out,  or  am  I  to  take  open  order,  Dombey,  and 
to  keep  my  difetance,  and  to  stand  on  forms?" 

"My  dear  Major  Bagstock,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
gratified  air,  "  you  are  quite  warm." 

"  By  gad,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  warm,  Joseph 
B.  does  not  deny  it,  Dombey.  He  is  warm.  This  is  an 
occasion,  sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympatliies 
remaining  in  an  old,  infernal,  battered,  used  up,  inva- 
lided, J.  B,  carcase.  And  I  tell  you  what,  Domney— at 
such  a  time  a  man  must  blurt  out  what  he  feels,  or  put 
a  muzzle  on;  and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells  you  to  your 
face,  Dombey,  bb  he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back,  that 
he  never  will  be  muzzled  when  Paul  Dombey  is  in  ques- 
tion. Now,  damme,  sir,"  concludes  the  major,  with  great 
firmness,  "  what  do  you  make  of  that?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  assure  you  that  I  am 
really  obliged  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  cnecking  your 
too  partial  friendship." 

"Not  too  partial,  sir!"  exclaims  the  choleric  major. 
"  Dombey,  I  deny  it! " 

"  Your  friendship  I  will  say  then,"  pursues  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  on  any  account.  Nor  can  I  forget,  major,  on  such 
an  occasion  as  the  present,  how  much  I  am  indebted 
to  it." 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  with  appropriate  action. 
"  that  is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock;  of  plain  old  Joer 
B..  sir,  if  you  like  that  better!  That  is  the  hand,  of  which 
His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  ^d  me  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7 

honor  to  observe,  sir,  to  His'  Royal  Highness  the  late 
Duke  of  Kent,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  Josh.;  a  rough 
and  tough,  and  possihly  an  up-to-snuff,  old  vagabond. 
Dombey,  may  the  present  moment  be  the  least  unhappy 
of  our  lives.    Qod  bless  youl " 

Now,  enters  Mr,  Carker,  gorgeous  likewisBj  and  smil- 
ing like  a  wedding-guest  indeed.  He  can  scarcely  let 
Mr.  Dombey's  hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory;  and  he 
shakes  the  major's  hand  so  heartily  at  the  same  time 
that  his  voice  shakes  too,  in  accord  with  his  arms,  as  it 
comes  sliding  from  between  bis  teeth. 

"  The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather!  I  hope  I  am  not  a 
moment  late?" 

"Punctual  to  your  time;  sir,"  says  the  major. 

*'  I  am  rejoiced,  I  am  sure,"  savs  Mr.  Carker.  "  I  was 
afraid  I  might  be  a  few  seconds  after  the  appointed 
time,  for  I  was  delayed  by  a  procession  of  wagons;  and 
I  took  the  liberty  of  riding  round  to  Brook-street  "-—this 
to  Mr.  Dombey — "to  leave  a  few  poor  rarities  of  flowers 
for  Mrs.  Dombey,  A  man  in  my  position,  and  so  diR- 
tinguished  as  to  be  invited  here,  is  proud  to  offer  some 
homage  in  acknowledgment  of  his  vassalage:  and  as  I 
have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Dombey  is  overwhelmed  with  what 
is  costly  and  magnificent;"  with  a  strange  glance  at  his 
patron;  "  I  hope  the  very  poverty  of  my  offering  may 
find  favor  for  it." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  is  to  be,"  returns  Mr,  Dombey, 
condescendingly,  "  will  be  very  sensible  of  your  atten- 
tion, Carker.  I  am  sure." 

"  And  if  she  is  to  be  Mfs.  Dombey  this  morning,  sir," 
Bays  the  major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup,  and  look- 
ing; at  his  watch,  "it's  nigh  time  we  were  off!" 

Forth,  in  a  barouche,  ride  Mr.  Dombey,  Major  Bag- 
stock,  and  Mr.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds  the 
beadle  has  long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting 
with  his  cocked  hat  in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Miff  curtseys 
and  proposes  chairs  in  the  vestry.  Mr.  Dombey  prefers 
remaining  in  the  church.  As  he  looks  up  at  the  organ, 
Miss  Tox  in  the  gallery  shrinks  behind  the  fat  leg  of  a 
cherubim  on  a  monument,  with  cheeks  like  a  young 
Wind.  Captain  Cuttle,  on  the  contrary,  stands  up  and 
waves  his  nook,  in  token  of  welcome  and  eneourago- 
meot.     Mr,  Toots  informs  the  Chicken,  behm4Ya?>\va.ui., 


S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  the  middle  gentleman,  he  in  the  fewn-col-  red  pHn- 
taloons,  is  the  father  of  his  love.  The  Chicken  hoareely 
whispers  Mr.  Toots  that  he's  as  stiff  a  cove  as  ever  he 
see,  hut  that  it  is  within  the  resources  of  Science  to 
douhle  him  up  with  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat, 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eyeing  Mr.  Domber 
from  a  little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approachiai; 
wheels  is  heard,  and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Miff, 
meeting  Mr.  Dombey's  eye  as  it  is  withdrawn  from  the 
presumptuous  maniac  up-stairs,  who  salutes  him  with 
so  mucli  urbanity,  drops  a  curtsey,  and  informs  him 
that  she  believes  his  "  good  lady  "  is  come.  Then  there 
is  a  crowding  and  a  whispermg  at  the  door,  and  (he 
good  lady  enters,  with  a  haughty  step. 

There  is  no  sign  upon  her  face  of  last  night's  suffer- 
ing: there  is  no  trace  in  her  manner  of  the  woman  on 
the  bended  knees,  reposing  her  wild  head  upon  the  pil- 
low of  the  sleeping  girl.  That  girl,  all  gentle  and 
lovely,  is  at  her  side — a  striking  contrast  to  her  own 
disdainful  and  defiant  figure,  standing  there,  composed. 
erect,  inscrutable  of  will,  resplendent  and  majestic  in 
the  zenith  of  its  charms,  yet  ueating  down,  and  tread- 
ing on,  the  admiration  that  it  challenges. 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  glides 
into  the  veatry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this 
juncture,  Mrs.  Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombev;  more 
distinctly  and  emphatically  than  her  custom  is,  and 
moving,  at  tlie  same  time,  close  to  Edith. 

•'  My  dear  Donibey,"  says  the  good  mama,  "  I  fear  I 
must  relinquish  daHing  Florence  after  all,  and  suffer 
her  to  go  home,  as  she  herself  proposed.  After  my  loss 
of  to-day,  mv  dear  Dombey,  I  feel  I  sh^l  not  have 
spirits,  even  {or  her  society. ' 

"Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you?"  returns  the 
bridegroom. 

"I  think  not,  my  dear  Dombey.  No,  I  think  not  I 
shall  be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will 
be  her  natural  and  constant  guardian  when  you  return, 
and  I  had  better  not  encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps. 
She  might  be  jealous.     Eh.  dear  Edith?  " 

The  affectionate  mama  presses  her  daughter's  arm.  as 
she  says  this:  perhaps  entreating  her  attention  ear- 
nestly. 

"  To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  resumes,  "  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  H 

■will  relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloom 
upon  her.  We  have  settled  that,  just  now.  She  fully 
understandB,  dear  Dombey.  Edith,  my  dear, — she  fully 
understands." 

Again,  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter's  arnu 

Mr,  Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance;  for  the 

clergyman  and  clerk   appear;  and   Mrs,  Miff,  and  Mr. 

Sownds  the  beadle,  group  the  party  in  their  proper 

■  places  at  the  altar  rails. 

"  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man?  " 
Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He  has  come  from  Baden- 
Baden  on  purpose,  "  Confound  it,"  Cousin  Feenix  says 
— good-natured  creature.  Cousin  Feenix — "  when  we  do 
get  a  rich  city  fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him 
some  attention;  let  us  do  something  for  him." 

*'  J  give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  tins  man,"  saith  ■ 
Cousin  Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to 
go  in  a  straight  line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason 
of  his  wilful  legs,  gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married 
to  this  man,  at  first — to  wit,  a  bridesmaid  of  some  con- 
dition, distantly  connected  with  th^  family,  and  ten 
years  Mrs.  Skewton's  junior — but  Mrs.  Miff,  interposing 
her  mortified  bonnet,  dexterously  turns  him  back,  and 
runs  him,  as  on  castors,  full  at  the  "  good  lady; "  whom 
Cousin  Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to  this  man  accord- 
ingly- 
And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  heaven — ? 
Aye,  that  they  will:  Mr,  Dombey  says  he  will.  And 
what  says  Edith?    She  will. 

Ho,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and 
to  cherish,  till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their 
troth  to  one  another,  and  are  married. 

In  a  firm,  free  hand,  the  bride  subscribes  her  name 
in  the  register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry, 
"There  ain't  a  many  ladies  come  here,"  Mrs.  Miff  says 
with  a  curtsey — to  look  at  Mrs.  Miff,  at  such  a  season, 
is  to  make  her  mortified  bonnet  go  down  with  a  dip — 
"write  their  names  like  this  good  lady!"  Mr.  Sownds 
the  beadle  thinks  it  is  a  truly  spanking  signature,  and 
worthy  of  the  writer — this,  however,  between  himself 
and  conscience. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand 
shakes.     All  the  party  signs;  Cousin  Feenix  last;  who 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


10  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

puts  hia  noble  name  into  a  wrong  place,  and  enrolb  him- 
self as  having  been  born  that  morning. 

The  major  now  salutes  the  bride  right  gallantly,  and 
carries  out  that  branch  of  military  tactics  in  reference 
to  all  the  ladies:  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewton's  being 
extremely  hard  to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  &e 
sacred  edifice.  The  example  is  followed  by  Cousin 
Feenix,  and  even  by  Mr.  Dombey.  Lastly,  Mr.  Carker. 
with  his  white  teeth  glistening,  approaches  Edith,  more 
ns  if  he  meant  to  bit«  her  than  to  taste  the  sweets  tbat 
linger  on  her  lips. 

There  is  a  glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a  flashing 
in  her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him;  but  it  do« 
not,  for  he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes 
her  all  happiness. 

"If  wishes,''  says  he  in  a  low  voice,  "are  not  super- 
fluous, applied  to  such  a  union." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  answers,  with  a  curled  lip- 
and  a  heaving  bosom. 

But,  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  slif 
knew  that  Mr.  Dorabey  would  return  to  offer  his  alli- 
ance, that  Carker  knows  her  thorouglily,  and  reads  her 
right,  and  that  she  is  more  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  her  than  by  aught  else?  Is  it  for  this  reason  thai 
Jier  haughtiness  shrinks  beneath  his  smile,  like  snow 
within  the  hand  that  grasps  it  firmly,  and  that  her  im- 
perious glance  droops  in  meeting  his,  and  seeks  the 
ground? 

"  I  am  proud  to  see,"  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  servile 
stooping  of  his  neck,  which  the  revelations  making  by 
his  eves  and  teeth  proclaim  to  be  a  lie.  "  I  am  proud  to 
see  that  my  humble  offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  Dombej's 
hand,  and  permitted  to  hold  so  favored  a  place  in  w 
joyful  an  occasion." 

Though  she  bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  sonie- 
thing  ill  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she 
would  crush  the  flowers  it  holds,  and  fling  them,  with 
contempt,  upon  the  ground.  But  she  puts  the  hand 
through  the  arm  .of  her  new  husband,  who  has  been 
standing  near,  conversing  with  the  major,  and  is  proud 
again,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 

The  carriages  are  once  more  at  the  church  door.  Mr. 
Dombey.  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her 
through  the  twenty  fiunilies  of  little  women  who  are  on 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  II 

the  steps,  and  every  one  of  whom  remembere  the 
fashion  and  the  color  of  her  every  article  of  dress  from 
that  moment,  and  reproduces  it  on  her  doll,  who  is  for 
ever  being  married.  Cleopatra  and  Cousin  Feenix 
enter  the  same  carriage.  The  major  hands  into  a  sec- 
ond carriage,  Florence,  and  the  bridesmaid  who  so 
narrowly  escaped  being  given  away  by  mistake,  and 
then  enters  it  nimself,  and  is  followed  by  Mr.  Carker. 
Horses  prance  and  caper;  coachmen  and  footmen  shine 
in  fluttering  favors,  flowers,  and  new^-niade  liveries. 
Away  they  dash  and  rattle  through  the  streets;  and  as 
they  pass  along,  a  thousand  heads  are  turned  to  look  at 
them,  and  a  thousand  sober  moralists  revenge  them- 
selves for  not  being  married  too,  that  morning,  by  re- 
flecting that  these  people  little  think  such  happiness 
can't  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherubim's  leg, 
when  all  is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down  from  the  gal- 
lery. Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red.  and  her  pocket-handker- 
chief is  damp.  She  is  wounded,  but  not  exasperated, 
and  she  hopes  they  may  be  happy.  She  quite  admits  to 
herself  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  and  lier  own  compara- 
tively feeble  and  faded  attractions ;  hut  the  stately 
image  of  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  lilac  waistcoat,  and  his 
fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is  present  to  her  mind,  <end 
Miss  Tox  weeps  afresh,  behmd  her  veil,  on  her  way 
home  to  Princess's-  place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having 
joined  in  all  the  amens  and  responses,  with  a  devout 
growl,  feel^  much  improved  by  his  religious  exercises; 
and  in  a  peaceful  frame  of  miiid,  pervades  the  body  of 
the  church,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  and  reads  the  tablet  to 
the  memory  of  little  Paul,  The  gallant  Mr.  Toots,  at- 
tended by  the  faithful  Chicken,  leaves  the  building  in 
torments  of  love.  The  Chicken  is  as  yet  unable  to  elab- 
orate a  scheme  for  winning  Florence,  but  his  first  idea 
has  gained  possession  of  him,  and  he  thinks  the  doubling 
up  of  Mr.  Domhey  would  be  a  move  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. Mr.  Dombey's  servants  come  out  of  their  hiding- 
places,  and  prepare  to  rush  to  Brook-street,  when  they 
are  delayed  by  symptoms  of  indisposition  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Perch,  who  entreats  a  glass  of  water,  and  becomes 
alarming;  Mrs.  Perch  gets  better  soon,  however,  and  is 
borne  away;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle, 
sit  ufK>n  the  Steps  to  count  what  they  have  gained  by 


]■>  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  aRair,  and  talk  it  over,  while  the  sexton  tolls  a  fu- 
neral. 

Now,  the  carriages  arrive  at  the  bride's  residence,  and 
the  players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band 
strikes  up,  and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial 
bliss,  salutes  his  wife.  Now,  the  people  run  and  pnsh, 
and  press  round  in  a  gaping  throng,  while  Mr,  Dombev, 
leadnig  Mrs.  Dombev  by  the  hand,  advances  solemnly 
into  the  Feenix  halls.  Now,  the  rest  of  the  wedding 
party  alight,  and  enter  after  them.  And  why  does  Mr 
Carter,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall-door, 
think  of  the  ola  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  grov* 
that  morning?  Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes, 
think,  with  a  tremble,  of  her  childhood,  when  she  was 
lost,  and  of  the  visage  of  good  Mrs.  Brown? 

Now,  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest 
of  days,  and  more  company,  though  not  much;  and  now 
they  leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at 
table  in  the  dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confec- 
tioner can  brighten  up.  let  him  garnish  the  ezhau5t«d 
negroes  with  as  many  flowers  and  love-knots  as  he  will. 

The  pastrv-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  though, 
and  a  rich  oreakfast  is  set  forth.  Mr,  and  Mrs,  Chick 
have  joined  the  party,  among  others,  Mrs.  Chick  ad- 
mires that  Edith  should  be,  by  nature,  such  a  perfect 
Dombey;  and  is  affable  and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  whose  mind  is  relieved  of  a  great  load,  and  who 
takes  her  share  of  the  champagne.  The  very  tall  young 
man  who  suffered  from  excitement  early  is  better;  but 
a  vague  sentiment  of  repentance  has  seized  upon  him. 
and  he  hates  the  other  very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests 
dishes  from  him  by  violence,  and  takes  a  grim  delight 
in  disobliging  the  company.  The  company  are  cool  and 
calm,  and  do  not  outrage  the  black  hatchments  of 
pictures  looking  down  upon  them,  by  any  excess  of 
mirth.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  major  are  the  gayest 
there;  but  Mr.  Carker  has  a  smile  for  the  whole  table. 
He  has  an  especial  smile  for  the  bride,  who  very,  very, 
seldom  meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  break- 
fasted, and  the  servants  have  left  the  room;  and  wonder- 
fully young  he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  almost 
covering  his  hands  (otherwise  rather  bony),  and  the 
bloom  of  the  champagne  in  his  cheeks. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  i:! 

"Upon  my  honor,"  saj^s  Cousin  Feenix,  "although 
t  's  an  unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a  private  gentleman's 
louse,  I  must  beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what 
8  usually  called  a — in  fact  a  toast." 

The  major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approval.  Mr. 
Jarker,  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the 
lirection  of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a  great 
many  times. 

"A — in  fact  it's  not- a — "  Cousin  Feenix  beginning 
igain,  thus,  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

' '  Hear,  hear! "  says  the  major,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

Mr.  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands  and,  bending  for- 
ward over  the  table  again,  smiles  and-  nods  a  great 
nany  more  times  than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly 
itruck  by  this  last  observation  and  desired  personally 
»  express  his  sense  of  the  good  it  has  done  him. 

"It  is,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "an  occasion  in  fact 
vhen  the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a  little  departed 
"rom,  without  impropriety;  and  although  I  never  was 
m  orator  in  my  life,  and  when  I  was  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  the  honor  of  seconding  the  address, 
ff-as — in  fact,  was  laid  up  for  a  fortnight  with  the  con- 
iciousness  of  failure — " 

The  major  and  Mr,  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by 
;his  fragment  of  personal  history  that  Cousin  Feenix 
aughs,  and  addressing  them  individually  goes  on  to  sav  r 

"  And  in  point  of  fact,  when  I  was  devilish  ill — still, 
rou  know,  I  feel  that  a  duty  devolves  upon  me.  And 
vhen  a  duty  devolves  upon  an  Englishman  he  is  bound 
o  get  out  of  it.  in  my  opinion,  in  the  best  way  he  can. 
iiVell!  our  family  has  had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of 
■onnecting  itself,  in  the  person  of  my  lovely  and  ac- 
lomplished  relative,  whom  I  now  see — in  point  of  fact, 
>resent —  " 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

'"  Present,"  repeats  Cousm  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a 
leat  point  whicn  will  bear  repetition, — "  with  one  who 
—that  is  to  say,  with  a  man,  at  whom  the  finger  of 
worn  can  never — in  fact,  with  my  honorable  friend 
Dombey,  if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so." 

Cousm  Feenix  bows  to  Mr,  Dombey;  Mr.  Domhey 
iolemnly  returns  the  bow;  everybody  is  more  or  less 
zratifiea  and  affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  per- 
naps  unprecedented,  appeal  to  the  feelings. 


14  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"I  have  not,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "enjoyed  those 
opportunities  which  I  could  have  desired  of  cultivating 
the  acquaintance  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  studying 
those  qualities  which  do  equal  honor  to  his  head,  ana. 
in  point  of  fact,  to  his  heart;  for  it  has  been  my  mis 
fortune  to  be,  as  we  used  to  say  iij  my  time  in  the  Houw 
of  Commons,  when  it  was  not  the  custom  to  allude  '/> 
the  Lords,  and  when  the  order  of  parliamentary  pr> 
ceedings  was  perhaps  better  observed  than  it  is  now- 
to  be  in — in  pomt  of  fact."  says  Cousin  Feenix,  cherisb- 
ing  his  joke,  with  ^eat  slvness,  and  finally  bringingit 
out  with  a  jerk,  "  '  in  another  place! ' " 

The  major  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered 
with  difficulty. 

"But  I  know  sufficient  of  my  friend  Dombey,"'  if- 
sumes  cousin  Feenix  in  a  graver  tone,  as  if  he  had  sui- 
denly  become  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man.  "  to  know  thtt 
he  is,  in  point  of  fact,  what  may  be  emphatically  calW 
a — a  merchant — a  British  merchant — and  a^and  a  man. 
And  although  I  have  been  resident  abroad  for  sone 
yhars  (it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  receive  dt 
friend  Dombey,  and  everybody  here,  at  Baden-Baden, 
and  to  have  an  opportunity  of  making  'em  known  to  the 
Grand  Duke),  still  I  know  enough,  I  flatter  myself,  of 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  to  know  that  she 
lOBsesses  every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy,  and  tlul 
_ier  marriage  with  my  friend  Dombey  is  one  of  inclina- 
tion and  affection  on  both  sides." 

Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Therefore,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  I  congratulate  ihe 
family  of  which  I  am  a  mpml>er,  on  the  acquisition  of 
my  friend  Domboy,  I  congratulate  my  friend  Dombey 
on  his  union  with  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
who  possesses  every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy: 
and  I  take  the  liberty  of  calHng  on  you  all,  in  point  of 
fact,  to  congratulate  both  my  friend  Dombey  and  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  on  the  present  occa- 

The  speech  of  Cousin  Feenix  is  received  with  great 
applause,  and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  beh^f  of 
himself  and  Mrs,  Dombov,  J.  B.  shortly  afterwards  pro- 
poses Mrs.  Skewton.  Tlie  breakfast  languishes  when 
that  is  done,  the  violated  hatchments  are  avenged,  and 
Edith  rises  to  assume  her  travelling  dress. 


E 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  15 

All  the  servants  in  the  meantime  have  been  break- 
fasting below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common 
among  them  to  be  mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised 
pies,  and  lobster  salad,  have  become  mere  drugs.  The 
very  tall  young  man  has  recovered  his  spirits,  and  again 
alludes  to  the  exciseman.  His  comrade's  eye  begins  to 
emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too,  stares  at  objects  without 
taking  cognizance  thereof.  There  is  a  general  redness 
in  the  faces  of  the  ladies;  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Perch  par- 
ticularly, who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and  lifted  so  far 
above  the  cares  of  life  that  if  she  were  asked  just  now 
to  direct  a  wayfarer  to  Ball's  Pond,  where  her  own  cares 
lodge,  she  would  have  some  difficulty  in  recalling  the 
way.  Mr,  Towlinson  has  proposed  the  happy  pair;  to 
which  the  silver-headed  butler  has  responded  neatly, 
and  with  emotion;  for  he  half  begins  to  think  he  is  an 
old  retainer  of  the  family,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  be 
affected  by  these  changes.  The  whole  party,  and 
especially  the  ladies,  are  very  frolicsome.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  cook,  who  generally  takes  the  lead  in  societv,  has 
said  it  is  impossible  to  settle  down  after  this,  and  why 
not  go,  in  a  party,  to  the  play?  Everybody  (Mrs.  Perch 
included}  has  agreed  to  this;  even  the  native  who  is 
tigerish  in  his  drink,  and  who  alarms  the  ladies  (Mrs, 
Perch  particularly)  by  the  rolling  of  his  eyes.  One  of 
the  very  tall  young  men  has  even  proposed  a  hall  after 
the  play,  and  it  presents  itself  to  no  one  (Mrs.  Perch  in- 
cluded) in  the  light  of  an  impossibility.  Words  have 
arisen  between  the  housemaid  and  Mr.  Towlinson;  slie, 
on  the  authority  of  an  old  saw,  asserting  marriages  to  be 
made  in  heaven:  he,  affecting  to  trace  the  manufacture 
elsewhere;  he,  supposing  that  she  says  so,  because  she 
thinks  of  being  married  her  own  self;  she,  saying  Lord 
forbid,  at  any  rate,  that  she  should  ever  marry  him.  To 
calm  these  flying  taunts,  the  silver-headed  butler  rises 
to  propose  the  health  of  Mr.  Towhnson,  whom  to  know 
is  to  esteem,  and  to  esteem  is  to  wish  well  settled  in  life 
with  the  object  of  his  choice,  wherever  (here  the  silver- 
heiuled  butler  eyes  the  housemaid)  she  may  be.  Mr. 
towlinson  rd;uma  thanks  in  a  speech  replete  with  feel- 
fag,  of  which  the  peroration  turns  on  foreigners,  regard- 
iig  whom  he  says  they  may  find  favor,  sometimes  with 
veak  and  inconstant  intellects  that  can  be  led  away  by 
lair,  but  all  he  hopes,  is,  he  may  never  hear  of  no 
,  .       C;ooo[c 


16  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

foreigfner  never  boning  nothing  out  of  no  travelling 
fhariot.  The  eye  of  Mr.  Towlinson  is  so  severe  and  eo 
expressive  here,  that  the  housemaid  is  turning  hyster- 
ical, when  she  and  all  the  rest,  roused  by  the  intelligence 
that  the  Bride  is  going  away,  hurry  up-stairs  to  wit- 
ness her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door;  the  Bride  is  descending  tc 
the  hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.  Florence  it 
ready  on  the  staircase  to  depart  too;  and  Miss  Nipper, 
who  has  held  a  middle  state  between  the  parlor  ana  the 
kitchen,  is  prepared  to  accompany  her.  As  EMith  ap- 
pears, Florence  hastens  towards  her,  to  bid  her  ftire- 
well. 

Is  Edith  cold,  that  she  should  tremble!  Is  there  any- 
thing unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Flor- 
ence, that  the  beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if 
it  could  not  bear  it!  Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this  go- 
ing away  that  Edith,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps 
on,  and  is  gonel 

Mrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  sinks  on  her  sofa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude, 
when  the  clatter  of  the  chariot  wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds 
several  tears.  The  major,  coming  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  from  table,  endeavors  to  comfort  her;  but  she 
will  not  be  comforted  on  any  terms,  and  so  the  major 
takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix  takes  his  leave,  and 
Mr,  Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  ^ests  all  go  away. 
Cleopatra,  left  alone,  feels  a  little  giddy  from  her  strong 
emotion,  and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall 
young  man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears 
to  have  his  head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and 
cannot  be  detached  from  it.  A  violent  revulsion  has 
taken  place  in  (he  spirits  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  on 
account  of  Mr.  Percii;  and  tells  cook  that  she  fears  he 
is  not  so  much  attached  to  his  home  as  he  used  to  be 
when  they  were  only  nine  in  family.  Mr.  Towlinson 
has  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  a  large  wheel  going  round 
and  roimd  inside  his  head.  The  nousemaid  wishes  it 
wasn't  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was  dead.* 

There  is  a  general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lowe 
regions,  on  the  subject  of  time;  everybody  conceiv 
ingthat  it  ought  to  be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o'clock  it 
night,  whereas  it  is  not  yet  three  in  the  afternoon,     I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  17 

ihadowy  idea  of  wickedness  committed  haunts  every 
ndividual  in  the  party;  and  each  one  secretly  thinks 
ihe  other  a  companion  in  guilt  whom  it  would  be  agree- 
ible  to  avoid.  No  man  or  woman  has  the  hardihood  to 
lint  at  the  projected  visitto the  play.  Any  one  reviving 
ihe  notion  of  tne  ball  would  be  scouted  as  a  mahgnant 
diot. 

Mrs.  Skewtoh  sleeps  up-staire,  two  hours  afterwards, 
ind  naps  are  not  yet  over  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatch- 
nents  in  the  dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty 
>lates,  spillings  of  wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  discol- 
)red  heel-taps,  scraps  of  lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls, 
ind  pensive  jellies,  gradually  resolving  themselves  into 
i  lukewarm  gummy  soup.  The  marriage  is,  by  this 
,ime,  almost  as  denuded  of  its  show  and  garnish  as  the 
>reakfast.  Mr.  Dombey's  servants  moralise  so  much 
tbout  it,  and  are  so  repentant  over  their  early  tea,  at 
lome,  that  by  eight  o'clock  or  so  they  settle  down  into 
;onfirmed  seriousness:  and  Mr.  Perch,  arriving  at  that 
lime  from  the  city,  fresh  and  jocular,  with  a  white 
vaistcoat  and  a  coinic  song,  ready  to  spend  the  evening, 
ind  prepared  for  any  amount  of  dissipation,  is  amazed 
■o  find  himself  coldly  received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  but  . 
joorly,  and  to  have  the  pleasing  duty  of  escorting  that 
ady  home  by  the  next  omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through 
;he  handsome  house,  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own 
;hamber,  where  the  care  of  Edith  has  surrounded  her 
fT\i\i  luxuries  and  comforts;  and  divesting  herself  of  her 
landsome  dress,  puts  on  her  old  simple  mourning  for 
iear  Paul,  and  sits  down  to  read,  with  Diogenes  wink- 
ng  and  blinking  on  the  ground  beside  her.  But  Flor- 
snce  cannot  read  to-night.  The  house  seems  strange 
ind  new,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it.  There  is  a 
ihadow  on  her  heart:  she  knows  not  why  or  what:  but 
it  is  heavy,  Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff  Diog- 
anes,  who  takes  that  for  a  signal,  puts  his  paws  upon 
tier  lap,  and  rubs  his  ears  against  her  caressmg  hands. 
But  Florence  cannot  see  him  plainly,  in  a  Uttle  time, 
for  there  is  a  mist  between  her  eyes  and  him,  and  her 
dead  brother  and  dead  mother  shine  in  it  like  angels. 
Walter,  too,  poor  wandering  shipwrecked  boy,  oh,  where 
is  he! 

The  major  don't  know;  that's  for  certain;  and  don't 


IS  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

care.  The  major,  having  choked  and  slumbered  all  the 
afternoon,  has  taken  a  late  dinner  at  his  club,  and  now 
sits  over  his  pint  of  wine,  driving  a  modest  young  man. 
with  a  fresh-colored  face,  at  the  next  table  (who  would 
give  a  handsome  sum  to  be  able  to  rise  and  go  away, 
but  cannot  do  it),  to  the  verge  of  madness,  by  anealotes 
of  Bagstock,  sir,  at  Dorabey's  wedding,  and  old  Joe's 
devilisn  gentlemanly  friend,  Lord  Feenix.  While  Cousin 
Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long's,  and  in  bed,  finds 
himself,  instead,  at  a  gaming-table,  where  his  wilful 
legs  have  taken  him,  perhaps,  in  his  own  despite. 

Night,  like  a  giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to 
roof,  and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  nours.  Pale 
dawn  again  comes  peeping  through  the  windows;  and, 
giving  place  to  day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults, 
and  follows  it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the 
dead.  The  timid  mice  again  cower  close  together,  when 
the  great  door  clashes,  and  Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff, 
treading  the  circle  of  their  daily  lives,  unbroken  as  a 
marriage  ring,  come  in.  Again  the  cocked  hat  and  the 
mortified  bonnet  stand  in  the  background  at  the  mar- 
riage hour;  and  again  this  man  taketh  this  woman,  asd 
,  tliis  woman  taketh  this  man,  on  the  solemn  terms: 

"To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and 
in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherisn,  until  death  do  them 
part." 

The  very  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  re- 
peating, with  his  mouth  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he 
picks  uis  dainty  way. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THB  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES. 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  him 
in  his  fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  hiB 
prudent  provisions  against  surprise  because  of  the  non- 
appearance of  the  enemy.  The  captain  argued  that  his 
present  security  was  too  profound  and  weiiderful  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON'.  10 

endure  much  longer;  he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood 
in  a  fair  quarter  the  weathercock  was  seldom  nailed 
there;  and  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  deter- 
mined and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  to 
doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  devoted  herself  to  the 
task  of  his  discovery  and  capture.  Trembling  beneath 
the  weight  of  these  reasons,  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a  very 
close  and  retired  life;  seldom  stn-ring  abroad  until  after 
dark;  venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest 
streets;  never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays;  and  both 
^thin  and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat  avoiding 
bonnets,  as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event  of  his 
being  pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  his  walks, 
it  would  be  possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it 
could  not  be  done.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye, 
put  meekly  in  a  hackney-coach,  and  carried  off  to  nis 
old  lodgings.  He  foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he 
was  a  lost  man:  his  hat  gone;  Mrs.  MacStinger  watch- 
ful of  him  day  and  night;  reproaches  heaped  upon  his 
head,  before  the  infant  family;  himself  the  guilty  object 
of  suspicion  and  distrust:  an  ogre  in  the  children's  eyes, 
and  in  their  mother's  a  detested  traitor. 

A  violent  perspiration,  and  a  lowness  of  spirits  always 
came  over  the  captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  presented 
itself  to  his  imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous 
to  his  stealing  out  of  doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise. 
Sensible  of  the  risk  he  ran,  the  captain  took  leave  of 
Rob  at  those  times  with  the  solemnity  which  became  a 
man  who  might  never  return:  exhorting  him  in  the 
event  of  his  (the  captain's)  being  lost  sight  of.  for  a 
time,  to  tread  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  keep  the  brazen 
instruments  well  polished. 

But  not  to  throw  away  a  chance,  and  to  secure  to 
himself  a  means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  com- 
munication with  the  external  world;  Captain  Cuttle 
soon  conceived  the  happy  idea  of  teaching  Rob  the 
Grinder  some  secret  signal  by  which  that  adherent 
might  make  hie  presence  and  fidelity  known  to  his  com- 
mander in  the  hour  of  adversity.  After  much  cogita- 
tion, the  captain  decided  in  favor  of  instructing  him  to 
whistle  the  marine  melody,  "  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily!  " 
and  Bob  the  Grinder  attaining  a  point  as  near  perfec- 
tion in  that  accomplishment  as  a  landsman  could  ho^ 


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20  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  reach,  the  captain  impresBed  these  mysterious  in- 
structions OD  his  mind: 

"  Now,  my  lad,  stand  byl    If  ever  I'm  took — " 

"Took,  captain!"  interposed  Rob,  with  his  round  eyes 
wide  open, 

"Ah!"  said  Captain  Cuttle  darkly,  "if  ever  I  goes 
away,  meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  dont  come 
within  hail  again  twenty-four  hours  arter  my  loss,  go 
you  to  Brig  Place  and  whistle  that  'ere  tune  near  my  old 
moorings — not  as  if  you  was  a  meaning  of  it,  you  un- 
derstand, but  as  if  you'd  drifted  there,  promiscuous. 
If  I  answer  in  that  tune,  you  sheer  off,  my  iad,  &nd 
come  back  four-and-twenty  hours  arterwards;  if  I  an- 
swer in  another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on,  and  wait 
till  I  throw  out  further  signals.  Do  you  understaod 
them  orders,  now?  " 

"What  am  I  to  stand  off  and  on  of,  captain?"  in- 
quired Rob.     "  The  horse-road?  " 

"  Here's  a  smart  lad  for  youl "  cried  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  sternly,  "  as  don't  know  his  own  native  alpW 
bet!  Go  away  a  bit  and  come  back  again  alternate— 
d'ye  understand  that?  " 

"Yes,  captain,"  said  RoK 

"Very  good,  my  lad,  then,"  said  the  captain,  relent- 
ing.    "Do  it!" 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better.  Captain  Cuttle  some- 
times condescended,  of  an  evening,  after  the  shop  was 
shut,  to  rehearse  the  scene:  retiring  into  the  parlor  for 
the  purpose  as  into  the  lodgings  of  a  supposititious  Mac- 
Stinger,  and  carefully  observing  the  behavior  of  his 
ally  from  the  hole  of  espial  he  had  cut  in  the  wall. 
Rob  the  Grinder  discharged  himself  of  his  duty  with  so 
much  exactness  and  judgment,  when  thus  put  to  the 
proof,  that  the  captain  presented  him,  at  divers  times, 
with  seven  sixpences,  m  token  of  satisfaction;  and 
gradually  felt  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of 
a  man  who  had  made  provision  for  the  worst,  and  taken 
every  reasonable  precaution  against  an  unrelenting 
fate. 

Nevertheless,  the  captain  did  not  tempt  ill-fortune,  bv 
being  a  whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Thougt 
he  considered  it  a  point  of  good  breeding  in  himself,  as 
a  general  friend  of  the  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey's 
wedding  (of  which  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21 

to  show  that  gentleman  a  pleasant  and  approving  coun- 
tenance from  the  gallery,  he  had  repaired  to  the  church 
in  a  hackney  cabriolet  with  hoth  windows  up;  and 
might  have  ecnipled  even  to  make  that  venture,  in  his 
dread  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  but  that  the  lady's  attend- 
ance on  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech 
rendered  it  peculiarly  unlikely  that  she  would  be  found 
in  communion  with  the  Establishment. 

The  captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  or- 
dinary routine  of  his  new  life  without  encountering 
any  more  direct  alarm  from  the  enemy  than  was  sug- 
gested to  him  by  the  daily  bonnets  in  the  street.  But 
other  subjects  began  to  lie  heavier  on  the  captain's 
mind.  Walter's  snip  was  still  unheard  of.  No  news 
came  of  old  Sol  Gills.  Florence  did  not  even  know  of 
the  old  man's  disappearance,  and  Captain  Cuttle  had 
not  the  heart  to  tell  ner.  Indeed  the  captain,  as  his  own 
hopes  of  the  generous,  handsome,  gallant-hearted 
youth,  whom  he  had  loved,  according  to  his  rough 
manner,  from  a  child,  began  to  fade,  and  faded  more 
and  more  from  day  to  day.  shrunk  with  instinctive  pain 
from  the  thought  of  exchanging  a  word  with  Florence. 
If  he  had  had  good  news  to  carry  to  her,  the  honest 
captain  would  have  braved  the  newly  decorated  house 
and  splendid  furniture— though  these,  connected  with 
the  lady  he  had  seen  at  church,  were  awful  to  him — 
and  made  his  way  into  her  presence.  With  a  dark  hori- 
zon gathering  around  their  common  hopes,  however, 
which  darkened  every  hour,  the  captain  almost  felt  as 
if  he  were  a  new  misfortune  and  affliction  to  her;  and 
was  scarcely  less  afraid  of  a  visit  from  Florence,  than 
from  Mrs.  MacStinger  herself. 

It  was  a  chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tle had  ordered  a  fire  to  he  kindled  in  the  little  back 
parlor,  now  more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship. 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  wind  blew  hard;  and  stray- 
ing out  on  the  house-top  by  that  stormy  bedroom  of 
his  old  friend,  to  take  an  observation  of  the  weather, 
the  captain's  heart  died  within  him  when  he  saw  how 
wild  and  desolate  it  was.  Not  that  he  associated  the 
weather  of  that  time  with  poor  Walter's  destiny,  or 
doubted  that  if  Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be  lost 
and  shipwrecked  it  was  over,  long  ago;  but  that  be- 
neath an  outward  influence  quite  distinct  from  the  suh- 


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22  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ject-matter  of  his  thoughtB  the  captain's  spirits  sank, 
and  his  hopes  turned  pale,  as  those  of  wiser  men  had 
often  done  before  him,  and  will  often  do  again. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind 
and  slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was, 
flying  fast  over  the  wilderness  of  house-tops,  and  looked 
for  something  cheery  there,  in  vain.  The  prospect  near 
at  hand  was  no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chests,  and  other 
rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the  Grinder 
were  cooine  like  so  many  dismal  breezes  getting  up.  A 
crazy  weatnercock  of  a  midshipman  with  a  telescoj*  al 
his  eye,  once  visible  from  the  street,  but  long  bricked 
out,  creaked  and  complained  upon  his  rusty  pivot  as  the 
shrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  sported  witb 
him  cruelly.  Upon  the  captain's  coarse  blue  vest  the 
cold  rain-drops  started  like  steel  beads;  and  he  cjjuW 
hardly  maintain  himself  aslant  against  the  stiff  nor'- 
wester  that  came  pressing  against  nim,  importunate  to 
topple  him  over  the  parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pave- 
menthelow.  If  there  wereanyHopealivethatevening. 
the  captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  certainly 
kept  house,  and  wasn't  out  of  doors;  so  the  captain- 
shaking  his  head  in  a  despondent  manner,  went  in  to 
look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back 
parlor,  and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for 
it  in  the  fire;  but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was 
bright.     He  took  out  his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  com- 

fosing  himself  to  smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow 
rom  the  bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths  of  vapor  that  curled 
upward  from  his  iips;  but  there  was  not  so  much  as  an 
atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope's  anchor  in  either.  He  tried  a 
glass  of  grog;  but  melancholy  truth  was  at  the  bottom 
of  that  well,  and  he  couldn't  linish  it.  He  made  a  turn 
or  two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among  the  in- 
struments; but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckoninp' 
for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  opposition  he  could 
offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  lone  sea. 

The  wind  stiil  rushing,  and  the  rain  still  pattering, 
against  the  closed  shutters,  the  captain  brought  to  w- 
fore  the  wooden  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  aiiti 
thought,  as  he  dried  tiie  little  officer's  uniform  with  his 
sleeve,  how  many  years  the  Midshipman  had  seen, 
during  which  few  changes — hardly  any — had  transpired 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  23 

among  hiB  ship's  company;  how  the  changes  had  come 
all  together  one  day,  as  it  might  be;  and  of  what  a  sweep- 
ing kind  they  were.  Here  was  the  little  society  of  the 
back  parlor  broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and  wide. 
Here  was  no  audience  for  Lovely  Peg,  even  if  there  had 
been  anybody  to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not;  for  the 
captain  was  as  moraUy  certain  that  nobody  but  he  could 
execute  that  ballad,  as  he  was  that  he  had  not  the  spirit, 
under  existing  circumstances,  to  attempt  it.  There  was 
no  bright  face  of  "  Wal'r"  in  the  house; — here  the  cap- 
tain transferred  his  sleeve  for  a  moment  from  the  mid- 
shipman's miiform  to  his  own  cheek; — the  familiar  wig 
and  buttons  of  Sol  Gills  were  a  vision  of  the  past;  Rich- 
ard Whittington  was  knocked  on  the  head;  and  every 
Elan  and  project,  in  connexion  with  the  Midshipman, 
ly  drifting,  without  mast  or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of 
waters. 

As  the  captain,  with  a  dejected  face,  stood  revolving 
these  thoughts,  and  polishmg  the  Midshipman,,  partly 
in  the  tenderness  of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  m  the 
absence  of  his  mind,  a  knocking  at  the  shop-door  com- 
municated a  frightful  start  to  the  frame  of  Rob  the 
Grinder  seated  on  the  counter,  whose  large  eyes  had 
been  intently  fixed  on  the  captain's  face,  and  who  had 
been  debating  within  himseIf,»for  the  five  hundredth 
time,  whether  the  captain  could  have  done  a  murder, 
that  he  had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was  always 
running  away. 

"  What's  that! "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 

"  Somebody's  knuckles,  captain,"  answered  Rob  the 
Grinder. 

The  captain,  with  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  imme- 
diately sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlor,  and  locked 
liimRelf  in.  Rob,  opening  the  door,  would  have  par- 
leyed with  the  visitor  on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had 
come  in  female  guise;  but  the  figure  being  of  the  male 
sex,  and  Rob's  orders  only  applymg  to  women,  Rob  held 
the  door  open  and  allowed  it  to  enter:  which  it  did  very 
quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  driving  rain. 

"A  job  for  Burgess  and  Co.  at  any  rate,"  said  the 
visitor  looking  over  his  shoulder  compassionately  at  his 
own  legs,  which  were  very  wet  and  covered  with, 
splashes.     "Oh,  how-de-do,  Mr.  Gills?" 

The  salutation  was  addressed  to  the  captain,  now 


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24  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

emerging  from  the  back  parlor  with  a  most  transitaTent 
and  utterly  futile  affectation  of  coming  out  by  accident 

"  Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the 
same  breath;  "  I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I'm  miicli 
obliged  to  you.     My  name  is  Toots, — Mister  Toots." 

The  captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  young 

fentleman  at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a  bow.  Mr. 
oots  replied  with  a  chuckle:  and,  being  embarrassed, 
as  he  generally  was,  breathed  hard,  shook  hands  with 
the  captain  for  a  long  time,  and  then  falling  on  Rob  the 
Grinder,  in  the  absence  of  any  other  resource,  shook 
hands  with  him  in  a  most  affectionate  and  cordial 
manner. 

"I  sayl  I  should  like  to  speak  a  word  to  you,  Mr. 
Gills,  if  you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  Bu^ 

E rising  presence  of  mind.  "  I  say!  Miss  D.  O.  M.  you 
now!" 

The  captain,  with  responsive  gravity  and  mystery, 
immediately  waved  his  nook  towards  the  little  parlor. 
whither  Mr.  Toots  followed  him. 

"Oh!  I  beg  vour  pardon  though,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
looking  up  in  tne  captain's  face,  as  he  sat  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire,  which  the  captain  placed  for  him; 
"  you  don't  happen  to  know  the  Chicken  at  all;  do  you 
Mr.  Gills?"  - 

"  The  Chicken?"  said  the  captain. 

"The  Game  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 

The  captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Toots  explained 
that  the  man  alluded  to  was  the  celebrated  public  char- 
acter who  had  covered  himself  and  his  country  with 
glory  in  his  contest  with  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One: 
but  this  piece  of  information  did  not  appear  to  enlighten 
the  captain  very  much, 

'*  Because's  he's  outside:  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
"But  it's  of  no  consequence;  he  won't  get  very  wet, 
perhaps." 

"  I  can  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sit 
in  the  shop  with  your  young  man,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots, 
"I  should  be  ffiad;  because  you  know,  he's  eeisily 
•offended,  and  the  damp's  rather  bad  for  his  stamina 
/tl  call  him  in,  Mr.  Gilfs." 

With  that,  Mr.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop-door,  sent 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

a  peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a 
stoical  gentleman  in  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a 
flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very  short  hair,  a  broken  nose, 
and  a  conaiderable  tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country 
behind  each  ear. 

"  Sit  down,  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of 
straw  on  which  he  was  regaling  himself,  and  took  in  a 
fresh  supply  from  a  reserve  lie  carried  in  his  hand. 

•'There  an't  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is 
there?"  said  the  Chicken,  generally.  "This  here 
sluicing  night  is  hard  lines  to  a  man  as  lives  on  his 
condition.'' 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a  glass  of  rum,  which  the 
Chicken,  throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself, 
as  into  a  cask,  after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment, 
■■  Towards  us!"  Mr,  Toots  and  the  captain  returning 
then  to  the  parlor,  and  taking  their  seats  before  the  fire, 
Mr,  Toots  began: 

"Mr.  Gills— " 

"Awast!"  said  the  captain.     "My  name's  Cuttle." 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  cap- 
tain proceeded  gravely: 

•'  Cap'en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  na- 
tion, this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and  blessed  be 
creation  —  Job,"  said  the  captain,  as  an  index  to  his 
authority. 

"Oh!  I  couldn't  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I?"  said  Mr. 
Toots;  "because — " 

"  If  you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  genTm'n,"  said 
the  captain,  impressivelv,  and  laying  his  heavy  hand 
onMr.Toots'sknee,  "olaSol,  mind  you — with  your  own 
eyes — as  you  sit  there — you'd  be  welcomer  to  me  than 
a  wind  astarn  to  a  ship  becalmed.  ,  But  you  can't  sec 
Sol  Gills.  And  why  can't  you  see  Sol  Gills?"  said  the 
captain,  apprised  by  the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was 
making  a  profound  impression  on  that  gentleman's 
mind.     "Because  he's  inwislble." 

Mr.  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it 
was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  himself, 
and  said,  "  Lor  bless  me! " 

"  That  there  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  has  left  me  in 
charge  here  by  a  piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was 
a'most  as  good  as  my  sworn  brother,  I  know  nq  towv'; 


26  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

where  he'B  gone,  or  why  he's  gone — if  so  be  to  seek  his 
nevy,  or  if  so  be  along  of  being  not  quite  settled  in  Ids 
mind — than  you  do.  One  morning  at  daybreak,  he  went 
over  the  side,"  said  the  captain,  "without  a  Bplaah, 
without  a  ripple.  I  have  looted  for  that  man  high  and 
low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  nothing  else,  upon 
him,  from  that  hour." 

•■But,  good  gracious,  Miss  Dombey  don't  know—" 
Mr.  Toots  began, 

"  Why,  I  ask  you,  as  a  feeling  heart,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, dropping  his  voice,  "why  should  she  know?  Why 
should  she  be  made  to  know  until  such  time  as  there 
wasn't  any  help  for  il?  She  took  to  old  Sol  Gills,  did 
that  sweet  creetur,  with  a  kindness,  with  a  affability. 
with  a — what's  the  good  of  saying  so?  you  know  her." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  chuckled  Mr,  Toots  with  a  con- 
scious blush  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance. 

"  And  you  come  here  from  her?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  I  should  think  bo,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Then  all  I  need  observe  is,"  said  the  captain,  "  that 
you  know  a  angel,  and  are  chartered  by  a  angel." 

Mr.  Toots  instantly  seized  the  captain's  hand,  and  re- 
quested the  favor  of  his  friendship. 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  earn- 
estly, "  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd 
improve  my  acquaintance.  I  shoum  like  to  know  you, 
captain,  very  much.  I  really  am  in  want  of  a  friend, 
I  am.  Little  Dombey  was  my  friend  at  old  Blimber's, 
and  would  have  been  now,  if  he'd  have  lived.  The 
Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  forlorn  whisper. '"is 
very  well — admirable  in  his  way — the  sharpest  man 
perhaps  in  the  world;  there's  not  a  move  he  isn't  up  to; 
everybody  says  so — but  I  don't  know — he's  not  every- 
thing. So  she  is  aij  angel,  captain.  If  there  is  an  angel 
anywhere,  it's  Miss  Dombey.  That's  what  I've  always 
said.  Really  though,  vou  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "1 
should  be  very  mucli  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  cultivate 
my  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cuttle  received  this  proposal  in  a  polite  man- 
ner, but  still  without  committing  nimself  to  its  accept- 
ance: merely  observing,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.  We  shall 
see,  we  shall  see;"  and  reminding  Mr.  Toots  of  his 
immediate  mission  Jiy  inquiring  to  what  he  was  in- 
debted for  the  honor  of  that  visit. 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOgle 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  27 

"Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "that  it's  the 
young  woman  I  come  from.  Not  Miss  Dombey — Susan, 
you  know." 

The  captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a  grave  ex- 
pression of  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that  yoimg 
woman  with  serious  respect. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  seud  Mr.  Toots. 
"  You  know,  I  go  and  call  sometimes,  on  Miss  Dombey. 
I  don't  go  there  on  purpose;  you  know,  but  I  happen  to 
be  in  the  neighborhood  very  often;  and  when  I  find 
myself  there,  why — why  I  call." 

•■  Nat'rally,"  observed  the  captain. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  called  this  afternoon. 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  don't  think  it's  possible  to 
form  an  idea  of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  after- 

The  captain  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  imply- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was 
quite  so  to  him. 

"  As  I  was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "the  young 
woman,  in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into 
the  pantry." 

The  captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to 
'  this  proceeding;  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair  looked 
at  Mr.  Toots  with  a  distrustful,  if  not  threatening  vis- 
age. 

"  Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  this  news- 
paper. She  told  me  that  she  had  kept  it  from  Miss  Dom- 
Dey  all  day  on  accoimt  of  something  that  was  in  it, 
about  somebody  that  she  and  Dombey  used  to  know; 
and  then  she  read  the  passage  to  me.  Very  well.  Then 
she  said — wait  a  minute;  what  was  it  she  said,  though?" 

Jlr.  Toots,  endeavoring  to  concentrate  his  mental 
powers  on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  cap- 
tain's eye,  and  was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stern 
expression  that  his  difficulty  in  resuming  the  thread  of 
his  subject  was  enhanced  to  a  painful  extent. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Toots  after  long  consideration.  "Oh, 
ah!  Yes!  She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a  bare 
possibility  that  it  mightn't  be  true;  and  that  as  she 
couldn't  very  well  come  out  herself,  without  surprising 
Miss  Dombey,  would  I  go  down  to  Mr.  Solomon  Gills 
the  Instrument-maker's  in  this  street,  who  was  the 
party's  imcie,  and  ask  whether  he  believed  it  was  true. 


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28  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

or  had  heard  anything  else  in  the  city.  She  said,  if  he 
couldn't  speak  to  me,  no  doubt  Captain  Cuttle  could. 
By-the-by!"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ae  the  diBCOvery  flashed 
upon  him,  "  you,  you  know!  " 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toot's 
hand,  and-breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

"Well,"  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  "the  reason  why  I'm 
I'ather  late  is,  because  I  went  up  as  far  as  Finchley 
first,  to  get  some  uncommonly  fine  chickweed  that 
grows  there,  for  Miss  Dombey's  bird.  But  I  came  on 
Here,  directly  afterwards.  You've  seen. the  paper,  I 
suppose?" 

The  captain,  who  had  become  cautious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full 
length  by  Mrs.  MarStinger,  shook  his  head. 

"Shall  I  read  the  passage  to  you?"  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

The  captain  making  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  Mr. 
Toots  read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence: 

"  '  Southampton.  The  barque  Defiance,  Henry  James. 
-  Commander,  arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a  cargo 
of  sugar,  coIFee,  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed 
on  the  sixth  day  of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica, 
in' — in  such  and"^  such  a  latitude,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  * 
Toots,  after  making  a  feeble  dash  at  the  figures,  and 
tumbling  over  them. 

"  Ay!  cried  the  captain,  striking  his  clenched  hand 
on  the  table.     "  Heave  ahead,  my  lad!" 

" — latitude,"  repeated  Mr,  Toots,  with  a  startled 
glance  at  the  captain,  "and  longitude  so-and-so, — 'the 
lookout  observed,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  some 
fragments  of  a  wreck,  drifting  at  about  the  distance  of 
a  mile.  The  weather  being  clear,  and  the  barque  majc- 
ing  noway,  a  boat  was  hoisted  out.  with  orders  to  in- 
spect the  same,  when  they  were  found  to  consist  of 
sundry  large  spars,  and  a  part  of  the  main  rigging  of  an 
English  brig,  of  about  five  hundred  tons  burden,  to- 
gether with  a  portion  of  the  stem  on  which  the  words 
and  letters  "Son  and  H — "were  yet  plainly  legible. 
No  vestige  of  any  dead  body  was  to  be  seen  upon  the 
floating  fragments.  Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a 
breeze  springing  up  in  the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no 
more.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the 
fate  of  the  missing  vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir,  port  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  29 

London,  bound  for  Barbadoes,  are  now  set  at  rest  for 
ever;  that  she  broke  up  in  the  last  hurricane;  and  that 
every  soul  on  board  perished.' " 

Captain  Cuttle,  lilte  all  mankind,  little  knew  how 
much  hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discourajje- 
ment,  until  he  felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading 
of  the  paragraph,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  afterwards, 
he  sat  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  modest  Mr.  Toots,  like 
,  a  man  entranced;  then,  suddenly  rising,  and  putting  on 
his  glazed  hat,  which,  in  his  visitor's  honor,  he  had  laid 
upon  the  table,  the  captain  turned  his  back,  and  bent 
his  head  down  on  the  little  chimney-piece. 

"  Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots, 
whose  tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  captain's  unex- 
pected distress,  "  this  is  a  most  wretched  sort  of  affair 
this  world  is!  Somebody's  always  dying,  or  going  and 
doing  something  uocomfortable  in  it.  1  m  sure  1  never 
should  have  looked  forward  so  much,  to  coming  into 
my  property,  if  I  had  known  this,  I  never  saw  such  a 
world.     It's  a  great  deal  worse  than  Blimber's." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed 
to  Mr.  Toots  not  to  mind  him;  and  presentlv  turned 
round,  with  his  glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  nis  ears, 
and  his  hand  composing  and  smoothing  his  brown  face. 

"  Wal'r,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "farewell! 
Wal'r  my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I  loved  you!  He 
warn't  my  flesh  and  blood,"  said  the  captain,  looking 
at  the  fire — "  I  an't  got  none — but  something  of  what  a 
father  feels  when  he  loses  a  son,  I  feel  in  losing  Warr, 
For  why?"  said  the  captain.  "  Because  it  an't  one  loss, 
but  a  round  dozen.  Where's  that  there  young  school-boy, 
with  the  rosy  face  and  curly  hair,  that  used  to  be  as 
merry  in  this  here  parlor,  come  round  every  week,  as  a 
piece  of  music?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r,  Where's  that 
there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn't  tire  nor  put  out, 
and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we  joked 
him  about  Heart's  Delight,  that  he  was  beautiful  to  look 
at?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's  that  there  man's 
spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn't  see  the  old  man  hove 
down  for  a  minute,  and  cared  nothing  for  itself?  Gone 
down  with  Wal'r.  It  an't  one  WaFr.  There  was  a 
dozen  Wal'rs  that  I  know'd,  and  loved,  all  holding 
round  his  neck  when  he  went  down,  and  they're 
a-holding  round  mine  now!" 


,30  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Toots  sat  silent:  folding  and  refolding  the  news- 
paper as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

"  And  Sol  Gills,  said  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
"  poor  nevyless  old  Sol,  where  are  you  got  tol  you  was 
left  in  charge  of  me;  his  last  words  was,  '  Take  care  of 
my  uncle;'  What  came  over  you,  Sol,  when  you  went 
and  gave  the  go-by  to  Ned  Cuttle:  and  what  am  I  to 
put  in  my  accounts  that  he's  a  looking  down  upoD,  re- 
specting you!  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gillsl"  said  the  captain,  „ 
shaking  his  head  slowly,  "catch  sight  of  that  there 
newspaper,  away  from  home,  with  no  one  as  know'd 
"Wal'r  by,  to  say  a  word;  and  broadside-to  you  broach, 
and  down  you  pitch,  head-foremost!" 

Drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  the  captain  turned  to  Mr. 
Toots,  and  roused  himself  to  a  sustained  conBciousness 
of  that  gentleman's  presence. 

"  My  Tad,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  must  tell  the  young 
woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too  correct. 
They  don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints.  It's  en- 
tered on  the  ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book  as  a 
man  can  write.  To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  captain, 
"  I'll  stgp  out  and  make  inquiries;  but  they'll  lead  to  no 
good.  They  can't  do  it.  If  you'll  give  me  a  look-in  in 
the  forenoon,  you  shall  know  what  I  have  heerd;  but  tell 
the  young  woman  from  Cap'en  Cuttle  that  it's  over. 
Over!"  And  the  captain,  hooking  off  his  glazed  hat, 
pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of  the  crown,  wiped  his 
grizzled  head  despairingly,  and  tossed  the  handkerchief 
m  again,  with  the  indirterence  of  deep  dejection, 

"  Oh!  I  assure  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  really  I  am 
dreadfully  sorry.  Upon  my  word  I  am,  though  I 
wasn't  acquainted  with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Mjss 
Dombey  will  be  very  much  affected.  Captain  Gills — I 
mean  Mr.  Cuttle?" 

"  Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  captain,  with 
something  of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  innocence. 
"When  she  warn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  were  as 
fond  of  one  another  as  two  young  doves." 

"  Were  they  though! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  coDsid- 
erably  lengthened  face. 

"  Ttiej  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  captain, 
mournfully;  "  but  what  signifies  that  now? " 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  blurt- 
ing- out  his  words  through  a  singular  combination  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  31 

awkward  chuckles  and  emotion,  "  I'm  even  more  sorry 
than  I  was  before.  You  know.  Captain  Gills,  I— i 
positivelj' adore  Miss  Dombey;^^!  am  perfectly  sore 
with  loving  her; "  the  burst  with  which  this  confession 
forced  itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  Toots  bespoke  the 
vehemence  of  his  feelings;  "but  what  would  be  the 
good  of  my  regarding  her  in  this  manner,  if  I  wasn't 
truly  sorry  for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the 
cause  of  it.  Mine  ain't  a  selfish  affection,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  confidence  engendered  by  his 
having  been  a  witness  of  the  captam's  tenderness. 
"  It's  the  sort  of  thing  with  me,  Captain  Gills,  that  if  I 
could  be  run  over — or— or  trampled  upon— or — or  thrown 
off  a  very  high  place — or  anything  of  that  sort — for 
Miss  Dombey^s  sake,  it  would  be  the  most  delightful 
thing  that  could  happen  to  me." 

All  this  Mr.  Toots  said  in  a  suppressed  voice  to  pre- 
vent its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who 
objected  to  the  softer  emotions;  which  effort  of  re- 
straint, coupled  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings,  made 
him  red  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  and  caused  him  to  pre- 
sent such  an  affecting  spectacle  of  disinterested  love  to 
the  eyes  of  Captain  Cuttle  that  the  good  captain  patted 
him  consolingly  on  the  back,  and  bade  him  cheer  up. 

"  Thank'ee,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  '  it's  kind 
,of  you,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  so, 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  As  I  said  before,  I  really 
want  a  friend,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  your  ac- 
quaintance. Although  I  am  very  well  off,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  energy,  "'you  can't  think  what  a  miserable 
beast  I  am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know,  when  they 
see  me  with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  distinction 
like  that,  suppose  me  to  be  happy;  but  I'm  wretched.  I 
suffer  for  Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills.  I  can't  get 
through  my  meals;  I  have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor;  I 
often  cry  when  I'm  alone.  I  assure  you  it'll  be  a  satis- 
faction to  me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back 
fifty  times." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  captain's  hand ; 
and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as  could  be 
disguised  on  bo  short  a  notice  before  the  Chicken's  pen- 
etrating glance,  rejoined  that  eminent  gentleman  in  the 
shop.  The  Chicken,  who  was  apt  to  be  jealous  of  Kis 
ascendancy,  eyed  Captain  Cuttle,  ■wVWv   a."o.'^'Oii\w%\wJ'* 


32  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

favor  aa  he  took  leave  of  Mr.  Toots;  but  followed  his 
patron  without  being  otherwise  demonstrative  of  his 
ill-will:  leaving  the  captain  oppressed  with  sorrow;  and 
Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with  joy,  on  account  of  having 
had  the  honor  of  staring  for  nearly  half  an  hour  at  the 
conqueror  of  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One. 

Long  after  Rob  was  fast  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the 
counter,  the  captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire;  and  long 
after  there  was  no  fire  to  look  at,  the  captain  sat  gazing 
on  the  rusty  bars,  with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter 
and  old  Sol  crowding  through  his  mind.  Retirement  to 
the  stormy  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house  brought  no 
rest  with  it;  and  the  captain  rose  up  in  the  morning, 
sorrowful  and  unrefreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  city  offices  were  open,  the  captain 
issued  forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son. 
But  there  was  no  opening  of  the  Midshipman  s  windows 
that  morning.  Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  captain's  orders, 
left  the  shutters  closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a  house 
of  death. 

It  chanced  that  Mr.  Carker  was  entering  the  office,  as 
Captain  Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving  the 
manager's  benison  gravelv  and  silently.  Captain  Cuttle 
made  Dold  to  acconipany  uim  into  his  own  room. 

■*  Well,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up 
his  usual  position  before  the  fireplace,  and  keeping  on . 
his  hat,  "  this  is  a  bad  business." 

"  Tou  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yester- 
day, sir?"  said  the  captain. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  darker,  "we  have  received  it!  It 
was  accurately  stated.  The  underwriters  suffer  a  con- 
siderable loss.  We  are  very  sorry.  No  help!  Such  is 
life!" 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  with  a  penknife, 
and  smiled  at  the  captain,  who  was  standing  by  the 
door  looking  at  Jiim. 

"I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,"  said  Carker,  "and 
the  crew.  I  understand  there  were  some  of  our  very 
best  men  among  'em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many 
men  with  families  too.  A  comfort  to  reflect  that  poor 
Gay  had  no  family.  Captain  Cuttle!  "  , 

The  captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at 
the  manager.  The  manager  glanced  at  the  unopened 
letters  lying  on  his  desk,  and  took  up  the  newspaper, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  33 

"  Ib  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Captain  Cuttle? " 
he  asked,  looking  off  it,  with  a  smiling  and  expressive 
glance  at  the  door. 

"  I  wish  you  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  sir,  on  some- 
thing it's  uneasy  about,"  returned  the  captain. 

"Ayl "  exclaimed  the  manager,  "  what  s  that?  Come, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  nmst  trouble  you  to  be  quick,-  if  you 
please.     I  am  much  engaged." 

'■  Look'ee  here  sir,"  said  the  captain,  advancing  a 
step.  "Afore  my  friend  Wal'r  went  on  this  here  dis- 
astrous voyage—" 

"Come,  come,  Captain  Cuttle,"  interposed  the  smil- 
ing manager,  "  don't  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in 
that  way.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous 
voyages  nere,  my  good  fellow.  You  must  have  begun 
very  early  on  your  day's  allowance,  captain,  if  you 
don't  remember  that  there  are  hazards  in  all  voyages 
whether  by  sea  or  land.  You  are  not  made  uneasy  oy 
the  supposition  that  young  what's-his-name  was  lost  in 
bad  weather  that  was  got  up  against  him  in  these 
offices— are  you?  Fie,  captain!  Sleep,  and  soda-water, 
are  the  best  cures  for  such  uneasiness  as  that." 

"My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  slowly — "you  are 
a'most  a  lad  to  me,  and  so  I  don't  ask  your  pardon  for 
that  slip  of  a  word, — if  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this 
here  sport  you  an't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for, 
and  if  you  an't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for  may 
b(!  my  mind  has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now  this  is  what  it 
is,  jfr.  Carker. — Afore  that  poor  lad  went  away,  ac- 
cording to  orders,  he  told  me  that  he  wam't  a  going 
away  i()r  his  own  good  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.  It 
was  my  belief  that  he  was  wrong,  and  I  told  him  so, 
and  I  come  here,  your  head  governor  being  absent,  to 
ask  a  question  or  two  of  you  in  a  civil  way,  for  my  own 
satisfaction.  Them  questions  you  answered — free. 
Now  it'll  ease  my  mind  to  know,  when  all  is  over,  as  it 
is,  an<l  when  what  can't  be  cure<l  must  be  endoored — 
for  which,  as  a  scholar,  you'll  overhaul  the  hook  it's  in, 
and  thereof  make  a  note — to  know  once  more,  in  a 
word,  that  I  wam't  mistaken;  that  I  wam't  back'ard  in 
my  duty  when  I  didn't  tell  the  old  man  what  Wal'r 
told  me;  and  that  the  wind  was  truly  in  his  sail  when 
he  higheted  of  it  for  Barbadoes  Harbor.  Mr.  Carker." 
said  the  captain,  in  the  goodness  of  his  natuie,  •'  -^\v^;-r- 


U  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

I  was  here  last,  we  was  very  pleasant  together.  If  I 
ain't  been  altogether  so  pleasant  myself  this  momingr, 
on  account  of  this  poor  lad,  and  if  I  have  chafed  again 
any  observation  of  yours  that  I  might  have  fended  off, 
my  name  is  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  and  I  ask  your  pardon." 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  manager,  with  all 
possibfo  politeness,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"And  what  is  it,  sir?"  inquired  the  captain, 

"To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please,"  re- 
joined the  manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  "  and  to 
carry  your  jargon  somewhere  else." 

Every  knob  in  the  captain's  face  turned  white  with 
astonishment  and  indignation;  even  the  red  rim  on  his 
forehead  faded,  Hke  a  rainbow,  among  the  gathering 
clouds. 

"  I  tell  you  what.  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  the  manager, 
shaking  his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his 
teeth,  hut  still  amiably  smiling,  "I  was  much  too 
lenient  with  you  when  you  came  here  before.  You 
belong  to  an  artful  and  audacious  set  of  people.  In  my 
desire  to  save  young  what's-his-name  from  being  kicked 
out  of  this  place,  neck  and  crop,  my  good  captain,  I 
tolerated  you;  but  for  once,  and  only  once.  Now,  go, 
my  friend!" 

The  captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

"  Go,"  said  the  good-humored  manager,  gathering  up 
his  skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
"  like  a  sensible  fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out, 
or  any  such  violent  measures.  If  Mr.  Dombey  were 
here,  captain,  you  might  be  obliged  to  leave  in  a  more 
ignominious  manner,  possibly.     I  merely  say.  Go!  " 

The  captain,  laying  his  ponderous  nand  upon  his 
chest,  to  assist  himself  in  fetching  a  deep  breath,  looked 
at  Mr,  Carker  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  round  the 
little  room,  as  if  he  did  not  clearly  understand  where 
he  was,  or  in  what  company, 

"You  are  deep.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Carker, 
with  the  easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a  man  of  the 
world  who  knew  the  world  too  well  to  be  ruffled  by  any 
discovery  of  misdoing,  when  it  did  not  immediately 
concern  himself ;  "but  you  are  not  quite  out  of  souna- 
iiigs,  either — neither  you  nor  your  absent  friend,  captain. 
\Vnat  have  you  done  with  your  absent  friend,  hev?  " 


DOMBEY  AND  S(tN.  35 

Again  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  liis  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to 
"stand  oy?  "    But  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  coun- 
cils, and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice 
little  visitors,  too,  captain,  hey?"  said  Carker,  bending 
his  brows  upon  him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  tho 
less;  "but  it's  a  bold  measure  to  come  here  afterwards. 
Not  like  your  discretion!  You  conspirators,  and  hiders, 
and  runners-away,  should  know  better  than  that.  Will 
you  oblige  me  by  going?" 

"  My  lad,"  gasped  the  captain,  in  a  choked  and  trem- 
bling voice,  and  with  a  curious  action  going  on  in  the 
ponderous  fist;  "there's  a  many  words  I  could  wish  to 
say  to  you,  but  I  don't  rightly  know  where  they're 
stowed  just  at  present.  My  young  friend,  Wal'r,  was 
drownded  only  last  night,  according  to  my  reckoning, 
and  it  puts  me  out,  you  see.  But  you  and  me  will  come 
alongside  o'  one  anotlier  again,  my  lad,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, holding  up  his  hook,  "  if  we  live," 

"  It  will  be  anything  hut  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fel- 
low, if  we  do,"  returned  the  manager,  with  the  same 
frankness;  "for  you  may  rely,  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
upon  my  detecting  and  exposing  you,  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  a  more  moral  man  than  my  neighbors,  my  good 
captain;  but  the  confidence  of  this  House,  or  of  any 
member  of  this  House,  is  not  to  be  abused  and  under- 
mined while  I  have  eyes  and  ears.  Good  day! "  said 
Mr.  Carker,  nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  him  steadily  (Mr.  Carker 
looked  full  as  steadily  at  the  captain),  went  out  of  the 
office  and  left  him  standing  astride  hefore  the  fire,  as 
calm  and  pleasant  as  if  there  were  no  more  spots  upon 
his  soul  than  on  his  pure  white  linen,  and  his  smooth, 
sleek  skin. 

The  captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer 
counting-house,  at  the  desk  where  he  knew  poor  Wal- 
ter had  neen  used  to  sit,  now  occupied  hy  another  young 
hoy,  with  a  face  almost  as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  nis  on 
the  day  when  they  tapped  the  famous  last  bottle  hut  one 
of  the  old  Madeira,  in  the  little  back  parlor.  The  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  thus  awakened,  did  the  captain  a  great 
deal  of  good;  it  softened  him  in  the  very  height  of -his 
anger,  and  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 


36  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Arrived  at  the  wooden  Midshipman'B  again,  and  sit- 
ting down  in  a  corner  of  tlie  dark  shop,  the  captain's  in- 
dignation, strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against 
his  grief.  Passion  seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and 
violence  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  he  infected 
by  death,  and  to  droop  and  decline  beside  it.  All  the 
living  knaves  and  liars  in  the  world  were  nothing  to 
the  honesty  and  truth  of  one  dead  friend. 

The  only  thing  the  honest  captain  made  out  clearly, 
in  this  state  of  mind,  besides  the  loss  of  Walter  was. 
that  with  him  almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cut- 
tle had  been  drowned.  If  he  reproached  himself  some- 
times, and  keenly  too,  for  having  ever  connived  at 
Walter's  innocent  deceit,  he  thought  at  least  as  often  of 
the  Mr.  Carker  whom  no  sea  could  ever  render  up;  and 
the  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  now  began  to  perceive  was 
as  far  beyond  human  recall;  and  the  "Heart's  Delight," 
with  whom  he  must  never  foregather  again;  and  the 
Lovely  Peg,  that  teak -built  and  trim  ballad,  that  had 
gone  ashore  upon  a  rock,  and  split  into  mere  planks  and 
beams  of  rhyme.  The  captain  sat  in  the  dark  shop, 
thinking  of  tnese  things,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  his 
own  injury;  and  looking  with  as  sad  an  eye  upon  the 
ground  as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual  fragments 
as  they  floated  past  him. 

But  the  captain  was  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of 
such  decent  and  respectful  observances  in  memory  of 
poor  Walter  as  he  felt  within  his  power,  Rousing  him- 
self, and  rousing  Rob  the  Grinder  (who  in  the  unnatural 
twilight  was  fast  asleep),  the  captain  sallied  forth  with 
his  attendant  at  his  heels,  and  the  door-key  in  his 
pocket,  and  repairing  to  one  of  those  convenient  slop- 
selling  establisnments  of  which  there  is  abundant  choice 
at  the  eastern  end  of  London,  purchased  on  the  spot  two 
suits  of  mourning— one  for  Rob  the  Grinder,  which  was 
immensely  too  small,  and  one  for  himself,  which  was 
immensely  too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob  with  a  spe- 
cies of  hat,  greatly  to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry  and 
usefulness,  as  well  as  for  a  happy  blending  of  the  mar- 
iner with  the  coal-heaver;  wnich  is  usually  termed  a 
sou'wester;  and  which  was  something  of  a  novelty  in 
connexion  with  the  instrument  business.  In  their  sev- 
eral garments,  which  the  vender  declared  to  be  such  a 
miracle  in  point  of  fit  as  nothing  but  a  rare  combination 


fc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  37 

of  fortuitous  circumstances  ever  brought  about,  and  the 
fashion  of  which  was  unpajalleled  within  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  the  captain  and  Grinder  imme- 
diately arrayed  themselves:  presenting  a  spectacle 
fraugnt  with  wonder  to  all  who  beheld  it. 

In  this  altered  form,  the  captain  received  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  took  aback,  my  lad,  at  present,"  said  the  captain, 
'and  will  only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the 
^oung  woman  to  break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and 
^or  neither  of  'em  never  to  think  of  me  no  more — 'spe- 
cial, mind  you,  that  is — though  I  will  think  of  them, 
when  night  comes  on  a  hurricane  and  seas  is  mountains 
rowling,  for  which  overhaul  your  Doctor  Watts,  brother, 
and  when  found  make  a  note  on." 

The  captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  con- 
sideration of  Mr.'Toots's  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus 
dismissed  him.  Captain  Cuttle's  spirits  were  so  low,  in 
truth,  that  he  half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  fur- 
ther precautions  against  surprise  from  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
but  to  abandon  himself  recklessly  to  chance,  and  be  in- 
different to  what  might  -happen.  As  evening  came  on. 
he  fell  into  a  better  frame  of  mind,  however;  and  spoke 
much  of  Walter  to  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  attention 
and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally  commended.  Rob 
did  not  blush  to  hear  the  captain  earnest  in  his  praises, 
but  sat  staring  at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel  with  sym- 
pathy, and  making  a  feint  of  being  virtuous,  and  treas- 
uring up  every  word  he  said  (like  a  young  spy  as  he 
was)  with  very  promisine;  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the 
captain  trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles— he 
had  felt  it  appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering 
into  the  Instrument  Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a 
hawk's^and  opened  the  praver-book  at  the  Burial  Ser- 
vice. And  reading  softly  to  "himself,  in  the  little  back 
parlor,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes,  the 
captain,  in  a  true  and  simple  spirit,  committed  Walter's 
body  to  the  deep. 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


38  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

CHAPTER  III. 

CONTRASTS. 

Turn  we  our  eyes  upon  two  homes;  not  lying  side  by 
side,  but  wide  apart,  though  both  within  easy  range 
and  reach  of  the  great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country 
near  Norwood.  It  is  not  a  mansion;  it  is  of  no  preten- 
sions as  to  size;  but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  taste- 
fully kept.  The  lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower- 
garden,  the  clumps  of  trees  where  graceful  forms  of 
ash  and  willow  are  not  wanting,  the  conservatory,  the 
rustic  verandah  with  sweet-smelling  creeping  plants  en- 
twined about  the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior  of  the 
house,  the  well-ordered  offices,  though  all  upon  the  di- 
minutive scale  proper  to  a  mere  cottage,  bespeak  an 
amount  of  elegant  comfort  within  that  might  serve  for 
a  palace.  This  indication  is  not  without  warrant;  for 
within  it  is  a  house  of  refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  col- 
ors, excellently  blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn;  in 
the  furniture — its  proportions  admirably  devised  to  suit 
the  shapes  and  sizes  of  the  small  moms;  on  the  walls; 
upon  the  floors:  tinging  and  subduing  the  light  that 
comes  in  through  the  odd  glass  doors  and  windows  here 
and  there.  There  are  a  few  choice  prints  and  pictures, 
too;  in  quaint  nooks  and  recesses  there  is  no  want  of 
books;  and  there  are  games  of  skill  and  chance  set 
forth  on  tables  —  fant^tic  chess-men,  dice,  back-gam- 
mon, cards,  and  billiards. 

And  yet,  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort,  there  is 
something  in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  that 
the  carpets  and  the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless,  so 
that  those  who  move  or  repose  among  them  seem  to  act 
by  stealth?  Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not 
commemorate  great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render  nature 
in  the  poetry  or  landscape,  hall,  or  hut,  but  are  of  one 
voluptuous  cast — mere  shows  of  form  and  color — and  no 
more?  Is  it  that  the  books  have  all  iheir  gflld  outside, 
and  that  the  titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them  to 
be  compa,nions  of  the  prints  and  pictures?  Is  it  that  the 
completeness  and  the  beauty  of  the  place  is  here  and 
there  belied  by  an  aflEectation  of  humility,  in  some  un- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  30 

important  and  inexpensive  regard,  which  is  ae  false  as 
the  face  of  the  too   truly    painted    portrait    hanging 

{'onder,  or  its  original  at  hreakfast  in  his  easy  chair  be- 
ow  it?  Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that  orig- 
inal and  master  of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  some 
subtle  portion  of  himself,  which  gives  a  vague  expres- 
sion of  himself  to  everything  about  him? 

It  is  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  wlio  sits  in  the  easy 
chair.  A  gaudy  parrot  in  a  burnished  cace  upon  the 
table  tears  at  the  wires  with  her  beak,  ana  goes  walk- 
ing, upside  down,  in  its  dome-topj  shaking  het  house 
and  screeching;  but  Mr.  Carker  is  nidifferent  to  the 
bird,  and  looks  with  a  musing  smile  at  a  picture  on  the 
opposite  wall. 

"A  most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  cer- 
tainly," sa^she. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  Juno;  perhaps  a  Potiphar's  wife;  per- 
haps some  scornful  nymph — according  as  the  Picture 
dealers  found  the  market,  when  they  christened  it.  It 
is  the  figure  of  a  woman,  supremely  handsome,  who, 
turning  away,  but  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  spec- 
tator, flashes  her  proud  glance  upon  him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a  passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture — 
whati  a  menace?  No;  yet  something  like  it.  A  wave 
as  if  triumph?  No;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent 
salute  wafted  from  his  lips?  ■  No;  yet  like  that  too — he 
resumes  his  breakfast,  and  calls  to  the  chafing  and  im- 

Erisoned  bird,  who,  coming  down  into  a  pendent  gilded 
oop  within  the  cage,  like  a  great  wedding-ring,  swings 
in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near 
to  where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  bygone  days  is 
silent  and  almost  deserted  except  by  wayfarers  who 
toil  aloQg  on  foot.  It  is  a  poor,  small  house,  barely  and 
sparely  lurnisbed,  but  very  clean;  and  there  is  even  an 
attempt  to  decorate  it,  shown  in  the  homely  flowers 
trained  about  the  porch  and  in  the  narrow  garden.  The 
neighborhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as  little  of  the 
country  to  recommend  it  as  it  has  of  the  town.  It  is 
neither  of  the  town  or  country.  The  former,  like  the 
giant  in  his  travelline  boots,  has  made  a  stride  and 
passed  it,  and  has  set  his  brick-and-mortar  heel  a  long 
way  in  advance;  but  the  intermediate  spafie,  \>'4V«<ii^-«i. 


40  -  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  giant's  feet,  as  yet,  is  only  blighted  country,  and 
not  town;  and  here,  among  a  few  tall  chimneys  belch- 
ing Bmoke  all  day  and  night,  and  among  the  brick-fielde 
and  the  lanes  where  turf  is  cut,  and  where  the  fences 
tumble  down,  and  where  the  dusty  nettles  grow,  and 
where  a  scrap  or  two  of  hedge  may  yet  be  seen,  and 
where  the  bird-catcher  still  comes  occasionally,  though 
he  swears  every  time  to  come  no  more — this  second  home 
is  to  be  found. 

She  who  inhabits  it  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her  de- 
votion to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from  that 
home  its  redeeming  spirit,  and  from  its  master's  breast 
hie  solitary  angel:  out  though  his  liking  for  her  is  gone, 
after  this  ungrateful  slight  as  he  considers  it;  and 
though  he  abandons  her  altogether  in  return,  an  old 
idea  of  her  is  not  quite  forgotten  even  by  him.  Let  her 
flower-garden,  in  which  ne  never  sets  his  foot,  hut 
which  18  yet  maintained,  among  all  his  costly  altera- 
tions, as  if  she  had  quitted  it  but  yesterday,  bear  wit- 
ness! 

Harriet  Carker  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her 
beauty  there  hi«  fallen  a  heavier  shade  than  Time  of 
his  unassisted  self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he  is — the 
shadow  of  anxiety  and  sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle 
of  a  poor  existence.  But  it  is  beauty  still;  and  still  a 
gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that  must  be  sought 
out,  for  it  cannot  vaunt  itself;  if  it  could,  it  would  be 
what  it  is  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed  . 
in  homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull, 
household  virtues  that  have  bo  little  in  common  with 
the  received  idea  of  heroism  and  greatness,  unless, 
indeed,  any  ray  of  them  should  shine  through  the  lives 
of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it  becomes  a  con- 
stellation and  is  tracked  in  Heaven  straightway — this 
slight,  small,  patient  figure,  leaning  on  the  man  still 
young  but  worn  and  grey,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all 
tlie  world,  went  over  to  nim  in  his  shame  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  with  a  sweet  composure  and  determi- 
nation, led  him  hopefully  upon  his  Darren  way. 

"It  is  early,  John,"  sue  said.  "  Why  do  you  go  so 
early?" 

"Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.  If  I 
have  the  time  U>  spare,  I  should  like,  I  think — it's  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  41 

fancy — to  walk  once  by  the  house  where  I  took  leave  of 
him. ' 

"  I  wish  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John." 

"It  is  better  as  it  is,  my  dear,  remembering  his 
fate." 

"But  I  could  not  regret  it  more,  though  I  had  known 
him.  Is  not  your  sorrow  mine?  And  if  I  had,  perhaps 
you  would  feel  that  I  was  a  better  companion  to  you  in 
speaking  about  him,  than  I  may  seem  now," 

"My  dearest  sister!  Is  there  anything  within  the 
range  of  rejoicing  or  regret  in  whicn  I  am  not  sure  of 
your  companionship?" 

"  I  hope  you  thmk  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is 
nothing  r' 

"  How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me 
then,  than  you  are  in  this,  or  anything? "  said  her 
brother.  "  I  feel  that  you  did  know  him,  Harriet,  and 
that  you  shared  my  feelings  towards  him." 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  his 
shoulder  round  his  neck,  and  answered,  with  some 
hesitation : 

"No,  not  quite." 

"True,  true."  he  said;  "you  think  I  might  have  done 
him  no  harm  if  I  had  allowed  myself  to  know  him 
better?" 

"Think!  I  know  it." 

"Designedly,  Heaven  knows  I  would  not,"  he  re- 
plied, shaking  his  head  mournfully:  "hut  his  reputa- 
tion was  too  precious  to  be  perilled  by  such  associa- 
tion. Whether  you  share  that  knowledge,  or  do  not, 
my  dear — " 

"I  do  not,"  she  said  quietly, 

"  It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lighter 
when  I  think  of  him  for  that  wliich  made  it  so  much 
heavier  then,"  He  checked  himself  in  his  tone  of  mel- 
ancholy, and  smiled  upon  her  as  he  said  "  Good  by." 

"Good  by,  dear  Jonnl  lu  the  evening,  at  the  old 
time  and  place,  I  shall  meet  you  as  usual  on  your 
way  home.    Good  by." 

The  cordial  face  she  lifted  up  to  his  to  kiss  him, 
was  his  home,  his  life,  his  universe,  and  yet  it  was  a 
portion  of  his  punishment  and  grief;  for  m  the  cloud 
he  saw  upon  it— though  serene  and  calm  as  any' radiant 
cloud  at  sunset— and  m  the  constancy  and  d*iviA\wx  -aiS. 


42  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

her  life,  and  in  the  sacrifice  Bhe  had  made  of  ease,  en- 
joyment, and  hope,  he  saw  the  bitter  fruits  of  his  old 
crime,  for  ever  ripe  and  fresh. 

She  atood  at  tne  door  looking  after  him,  with  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  in  each  other,  as  he  made  his  way 
over  the  frowzy  and  uneven  patch  of  ground  which  lay 
before  their  house,  which  had  once  (and  not  long  agi>) 
been  a  pleasant  meadow,  and  was  now  a  very  waste, 
with  a  disorderly  ci'op  of  beginnings  of  mean  houses, 
rising  out  of  'the  ruboish,  as  if  they  had  been  unskil- 
fully sown  there.  Whenever  he  looked  back — as  once 
or  twice  he  did — her  cordial  face  shone  like  a  light  upon 
his  heart;  hut  when  he  plodded  on  his  way,  and  saw 
her  not,  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  stood  watch- 
ing him. 

Her  pensive  form  was  not  long  idle  at  the  door.  There 
was  daily  duty  to  discharge,  and  daily  work  to  do — for 
such  common-place  spirits  that  are  not  heroic  often 
work  hard  with  their  hands — and  Harriet  was  soon 
busy  with  her  household  tasks.  These  discharged,  and 
the  poor  house  made'quite  neat  and  orderly,  she  counted 
her  little  stock  of  money  with  an  anxious  face,  and 
went  out  thoughtfully  to  Guy  some  necessaries  for  their 
table,  planning  and  contriving,  as  she  went,  how  to 
save.  So  sordid  are  the  lives  of  such  low  natures,  who 
are  not  only  not  heroic  to  their  valets  and  waiting- 
women,  but  have  neither  valets  nor  waiting-women  to 
be  heroic  to  withal! 

While  she  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house,  there  approached  it  by  a  different  way  from  that 
the  brother  had  taken,  a  gentleman,  a  very  little  past 
bis  prime  of  life  perhaps,  but  of  a  healthy  florid  hue,  an 
upright  presence,  and  a  bright  clear  aspect,  that  was 

fracious  and  good-humored.  His  eyebrows  were  still 
lack,  and  so  was  much  of  his  hair ;  the  Sprinkling  of 
grey  observable  among  the  latter  graced  the  former 
very  much,  and  showed  his  broad  frank  brow  and  hon- 
est eyes  to  great  advantage. 

After  knocking  oiKe  at  the  door,  and  obtaining  no  re- 
sponse, this  gentlcnim  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  little 
porch  to  wait.  A  certain  skillful  action  of  his  fingers 
as  he  bummed  some  bars,  and  beat  time  on  the  seat  be- 
side him,  seemed  to  denote  the  musician  ;  andtheeitra- 
ordinary  satisfaction  he  derived  from  humming  some- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  i:i 

thing  very  rIow  and  long,  which  had  no  recognisalilo 
tune,  Beemed  to  denote  that  he  was  a  scientific  orie. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a  theme,  whicli 
seemed  to  go  round  and  round  and  round,  and  in  and  in 
and  in,  and  to  involve  itself  like  a  corkscrew  twirled 
upon  a  table,  without  getting  any  nearer  to  anything, 
when  Harriet  appeared  returning.  He  rose  up  as  she 
advanced,  and  stood  with  his  head  uncovered. 

"  You  are  come  again,  sir! "  she  said,  faltering. 

"  I  take  that  liberty,"  he  answered.  "  May  I  ask  for 
five  minutes  of  your  leisure? " 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
gave  him  admission  to  the  little  parlor.  The  gentleman 
sat  down  there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over  against 
her,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  perfectly  corresponded  to 
his  appearance,  and  with  a  simplicity  that  was  very  en- 
gaging; 

"Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  be  proud.  You  signified 
to  me,  when  I  called  t'  other  morning,  that  you  were. 
Pardon  me,  if  I  say  that  I  looked  into  your  face  while 
you  spoke,  and  that  it  contradicted  you,  I  look  into  it 
again,"  he  added,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm, 
for  an  instant,  "and  it  contradicts  you  more  and  more," 

3he  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could 
make  no  ready  answer. 

"  It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,"  said  her  visitor,  "and  gen- 
tleness.    Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning." 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words  divested  them  en- 
tirely of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain, 
grave,  unaffected,  and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  nead, 
as  if  at  once  to  thank  him  and  acknowledge  his  sin- 
cerity. 

"The  disparity  between  our  ages,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "  and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me, 
I  am  glad  to  think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my 
mind;  and  so  you  see  me  tor  the  second  time." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  sir,"  she  returned,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  ' '  or  what  may  be  supposed  to  be  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.     I  hope  I  cherish  no  other." 

"  For  yourself,"  ne  said. 

"For  myself." 

"  But — pardon  me — "  suggested  the  gentleman.  "  For 
your  brother  John?  " 

"Proud  of  hi»  love,  I  am,"  said  Harriet,  looking  fuU 


44  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

upon  her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  in- 
stant— not  that  it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that 
there  was  a  deep  impassioned  earnestness  in  it  that 
made  the  very  tremble  in  her  voice  a  part  of  her  firm- 
ness, "  and  proud  of  him,  Sir,  you  who  strangely  know 
the  story  of  his  life,  and  repeated  it  to  me  when  you 
were  here  last — " 

"  Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,"  in- 
terposed the  gentleman.  "For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
suppose — " 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "you  revived  it,  in  ray  hearing 
with  a  kind  and  good  purpose.    I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"I  thank  you,"  relumed  her  visitor,  pressing  her 
hand  hastily.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me 
justice,  I  assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say,  that  I, 
who  know  the  story  of  John  Carker's  life —  " 

"May  think  it  pride  in  me,"  she  continued,  "  when  I 
say  that  I  am  proud  of  him.'  I  am.  You  know  the  time 
was,  when  I  was  not — when  I  could  not  be — but  that  is 
past.  The  humility  of  many  years,  the  uncomplaining 
expiation,  the  true  repentance,  the  terrible  regret,  the 
pain  I  know  he  has  even  in  my  affection,  which  he 
thinks  has  cost  me  dear,  though  Heaven  knows  I  am 
happy,  but  for  his  sorrow! — oh  sir,  after  w^hat  I  have 
seen,  let  me  conjure  you,  if  you  are  in  any  place  of 
power,  and  are  ever  wronged,  never,  for  any  wrong, 
mflict  a  punishment  that  cannot  be  recalled;  wnile  there 
is  a  God  above  us  to  work  changes  in  the  hearts  He 
made." 

' '  Your  brother  is  an  altered  man,"  returned  the  gentle- 
man, corapassionalely.    "  I  iissure  you,  I  don't  doubt  it.'" 

"He  was  an  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,"  said 
Harriet.  "  He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  his  true 
self  now,  believe  me,  sir." 

"  But  we  go  on,'.'  said  her  visitor,  rubbing  his  fore- 
■~  head,  in  an  absent  manner,  with  his  hand,  and  then 
drumming  thoughtfully  on  the  table,  "  we  go  on  in  our 
clock-work  routine,  from  day  to  day,  and  can't  make 
out,  or  follow,  these  changes.  They — thev  're  a  meta- 
physical sort  of  thing.  We-— we  haven't  leisure  for  it. 
We — we  haven't  courage.  There  're  not  taught  at 
schools  or  colleges,  and  we  don't  know  how  to  set  about 
it.  In  short,  we  are  so  d- — -d  business-like,"  said  the 
gentleman,  walking  to  the  window,  and  back,  and  sit- 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  45 

tin^  down  again,  in  a  Btate  of  extreme  disatiefactiun 
and  vexation. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  gentleman,  ruhbinj^  his  fore- 
head again,  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before;  "  I 
have  good  reason  to  believe  that  a  jog-trot  life,  the  same 
from  aay  to  day,  would  reconcile  one  to  anything.  One 
don't  see  anything,  one  don't  hear  anything,  one  don't 
know  anythmg;  that 's  the  fact.  We  go  on  taking 
everything  for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until  whatever 
we  do,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from  habit. 
Habit  is  all  I  shall  have  to  report,  when  I  am  called 
upon  to  plead  to  my  conscience  on  my  death-bed. 
'  Habit,'  says  I:  '  I  was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic, 
to  a  million  things,  from  habit.'  'Very  business-like 
indeed,  Mr.  What  's-your-name,'  says  Conscience,  '  but 
it  won't  do  here! ' " 

The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window^ 
again  and  back:  seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  his 
uneasiness  this  peculiar  expression. 

"Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  " I  wish 
vou  would  let  me  serve  you.  Look  at  me;  I  ought  to 
look  honest,  for  I  know  I  am  so,  at  present.     Do  f?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile, 

"  I  believe  every  word  you  have  said,"  he  returned. 
"I  am  full  of  self-reproach  that  I  might  have  known 
this  and  seen  this,  and  known  you  and  seen  you,  any 
time  these  dozen  years,  and  that  I  never  have,  I  hardly 
know  how  I  ever  got  here — creature  that  I  am,  not  only 
of  my  own  habit,  but  of  other  people'sl  But  having 
done  so,  let  me  do  something.  I  ask  it  in  all  honor  and 
respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both,  in  the  highest  de- 
gree.    Let  me  do  something." 

"We  are  contented,  sir." 

"  No,  no,  not  quite,"  returned  the  gentleman.  ','  I  think 
not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that  might 
smooth  your  life,  and  his.  And  his!"  he  repeated, 
fancying  thai  had  made  some  impression  on  her.  "I 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  that  there  was  noth- 
ing wanting  to  be  done  for  him;  that  it  was  all  settled 
and  over;  in  short,  of  not  thinking  at  all  about  it.  I  am 
diiferent  now.  Let  me  do  something  for  him.  You  too," 
said  the  visitor,  with  careful  delicacy,  "  have  need  to 
watch  your  health  closely,  for  his  sake,  and  I  fear  it 
fails." 


46  DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

"Whoever  you  may  be,  sir,"  answered  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  face,  "I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you. 
I  ^el  certain  that  in  all  you  say,  you  have  no  object  in 
the  world  but  kindness  to  us.  But  years  have  passed 
since  we  began  this  life;  and  to  take  from  my  brother 
any  part  of  what  has  so  endeared  him  to  me,  and  so 
proved  his  better  resolution — any  fragment  of  the  merit 
of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and  forgotten  reparation — 
would  be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it  will  be  to  him  and 
me  when  that  time  comes,  to  each  of  us,  of  which  you 
spoke  just  now,  I  thank  you  better  with  these' tears 
than  any  words.     Believe  it,  pray." 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  hia  lips,  much  as  a  tender  father  might  kiss 
the  hand  of  a  dutiful  child.    But  more  reverently. 

"If  the  dav  should  ever  come,'"  said  Harriet,  "when 
he  ie  restoretf,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost — " 

"Restored!"  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  "How 
can  that  be  hoped  for?  In  whose  hands  does  the  power 
of  any  restoration  lie?  It  is  namistake  of  mine,  surely, 
to  suppose  that  his  having  gained  the  priceless  blessing 
of  his  life,  is  one  cause  of  the  animosity  shown  to  him 
by  his  brother." 

"  You  touch  upon  a  subject  that  is  never  breathed 
between  us;  not  even  between  us,"  said  Harriet. 

■'  I  beg  your  forgiveness,"  said  the  visitor.  "I  should 
have  known  it.  I  entreat  you  to  forget  that  I  have 
done  so,  inadvertently.  And  now,  as  I  dare  urge  no 
more — as  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  a  riglit  to  do  so — 
though  Heaven  knows,  even  that  doubt  may  be  habit," 
said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  head,  as  despondently 
as  before,  "  let  me;  though  a  stranger,  yet  no  stranger; 
iisk  two  favors." 

"  What  are  they?  "  she  inquired. 

"The'first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  change 
your  resolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  right 
hand.  My  name  shall  then  be  at  your  pervice;  it  is 
useless  now,  and  always  insignificant." 

' '  Our  choice  of  friends,"  she  answered  smiling  faintly, 
"  is  not  so  great,  that  I  need  any  time  for  consideration. 
I  can  promise  that." 

"  The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say 
every  Mondaj'  morning,  at  nine  o'clock — habit  again— I 
must   be  business-like,"  said  the  gentleman,  with   a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  '47 

whimsical  inclination  to  quarrel  with  himself  on  that 
head,  "  in  walking  past,  to  see  you  at  the  door  or  win- 
dow. I  don't  ask  to  come  in,  as  your  brother  will  be 
gone  out  at  that  hour.  I  don't  ask  to  speak  to  you.  I 
merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  mind, 
that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to  remind  you, 
by  the  sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a  friend — an  elderly 
friend,  grey -haired  already,  and  fast  growing  greyer— 
whom  you  may  ever  command," 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his;  confided  in  it;  and 
promised. 

"  I  understand,  as  before,"  said  the  gentleman,  rising, 
"that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John 
Carker  lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  by  my  ac- 
quaintance with  his  historv,  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is 
out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and — habit  again! " 
said  the  gentleman,  checking  himself  impatiently,  "  as 
if  there  were  no  better  course  than  the  ordinary  course! " 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bare-headed, 
to  the  outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with 
such  a  happy  mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  un- 
affected interest  as  no  breeding  could  have  tauglit,  no 
truth  mistrusted,  and  nothing  but  a  pure  and  single 
heart  expressed. 

Many  naif-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the 
sister's  mind  by  this  visit.  It  was  so  very  long  since 
any  other  visitor  had  crossed  their  threshold;  it  was  so 
very  long  since  any  voice  of  sympathy  had  made  sad 
music  in  her  ears;  that  the  stranger's  figure  remained 
present  to  her,  hours  afterwards,  when  she  sat  at  the 
window,  plying  her  needle;  and  his  words  seemed  newly 
spoken,  again  and  again.  He  had  touched  the  spring 
that  opened  her  whole  life;  and  if  she  lost  him  for  a 
short  space  it  was  only  among  the  many  shapes  of  the 
one  gipat  recollection  of  which  that  life  was  made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns;  now  constraining  her- 
self to  be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a  long  time  together, 
•and  now  letting  her  work  fall,  unregarded,  on  her  lap, 
and  straying  wheresoever  her  busier  thoughts  led,  Har- 
riet Carker  found  the  hours  glide  by  her,  and  the  day 
steal  on.  The  morning,  which  had  been  bright  and 
clear,  gradually  became  overcast;  a  sharp  wind  set  in; 
the  rain  fell  heavily;  and  a  dark  mist  drooping  over  the 
distant  town  hid  it  from  the  view. 


48-  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  often  looked  with  conipassioD,  at  such  a  time, 
upon  the  stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London, 
hy  the  great  nighway  hard-by,  and  who,  footsore  and 
weary,  and  gazing  fearfully  at  the  huge  town  before 
them,  as  if  foreboding  that  their  misery  there  would  be 
but  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  or  as  a  grain  of  sea- 
sand  on  the  shore,  went  shrinking  on,  cowering  before 
the  angry  weather,  and  looking  as  if  the  very  elements 
rejected  them.  Day  after  day,  such  travellers  crept 
past,  hut  always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction — 
always  towards  the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or 
other  of  its  immensity,  towards  which  they  seemed  im- 
pelled by  a  desperate  fascination,  they  never  returned. 
Food  fornospitals,  the  churchyards,  the  prisons,  the  river, 
fever,  madness,  vice,  and  death, — they  passed  on  to  the 
monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling, 
and  the  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet, 
raising  her  eyes  from  the  work  on  which  she  had  long 
since  ueen  engaged  with  unremitting  constancy,  saw 
one  of  these  travellers  approaching. 

A  woman.  A  solitary  woman  of  some  thirty  years  of 
age;  tall;  well-formed;  handsome;  miserably  dressed; 
the  soil  of  many  country  roads  in  varied  weather — dust, 
chalk,  clay,  gravel — clotted  on  her  grey  cloak  by  the 
streaming  wet;  no  bonnet  on  her  head,  nothing  to  de- 
fend her  rich  black  hair  from  the  rain  but  a  torn  hand- 
kerchief; with  the  fluttering  ends  of  which,  and  with 
her  hair,  the  wind  blinded  her  so  that  she  often  stopped 
to  push  them  back,  and  look  upon  the  way  she  was 
going. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  domg  so,  when  Hamet  ob- 
served her.  As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sun-burnt 
forehead,  swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the 
hindrances  that  encroached  upon  it,  there  was  a  reck- 
less and  regardless  beauty  in  it;  a  dauntless  afid  de- 
praved indifference  to  more  than  weather:  a  careless- 
ness of  what  was  cast  upon  her  bare  head  from  heaven  . 
or  earth:  that,  coupled  with  her  misery  and  loneliness, 
touched  the  heart  of  her  fellow-woman.  She  thought 
of  all  that  was  perverted  and  debased  within  her,  no 
less  than  without:  of  modest  graces  of  the  mind,  hard- 
ened and  steeled,  like  these  attractions  of  the  person; 
of  the  many  gifts  of  the  Creator  flung  to  the  winds  like 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  49 

the  wild  hair;  of  all  the  beautiful  ruin  upon  which  the 
storm  was  beating  and  the  night  was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a  deli- 
cate indignation — too  many  of  her  own  compassionate 
and  tender  sex  too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  lookmg  far  before  her,  try- 
ing with  her  eager  eyee  to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  the 
city  was  enshrouded,  and  glancing,  now  and  then,  from 
side  to  side,  with  the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect 
of  a  stranger.  Though  her  tread  was  hold  and  cour- 
ageous, she  was  fatigued  and,  after  a  moment  of  irreso- 
lution, sat  down  upon  a  heap  of  stonesj  seeking  no 
shelter  from  the  rain,  but  letting  it  rain  on  her  as  it 
would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house;  raising  her  head 
after  resting  it  for  a  moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes 
met  those  of  Harriet. 

In  a  moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door;  and  the  other 
risiilg;  from  her  seat  at  her  beck  came  slowly,  and  with 
no  conciliatory  look,  towards  her. 

"  Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain?"  said  Harriet,  gently. 

"Because  I  have  no  other  resting-place,"  was  the 
reply. 

"But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here. 
This,"  referring  to  tlie  Httle  porch,  "  is  better  than  where 
you  were.     You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here." 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her,  in  doubt  and  surprise, 
but  without  any  expression  of  thankfulness;  and  sitting 
down,  and  taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  out 
the  fragments  of  stone  and  dust  that  were  inside, 
showed  that  her  foot  was  cut  and  bleeding. 

Harriet  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  traveller 
looked  up  with  a  contemptuous  and  incredulous  smile. 

"Why  what's  a  torn  foot  to  such  as  me?"  she  said. 
"  And  what's  a  torn  foot  in  such  as  me  to  such  as  you?" 

"  Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly, 
"and  let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up." 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before 
her  own  eyes,  hid  tnem  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  like 
a  woman,  but  like  a  stern  man  surprised  into  that 
weakness:  with  a  violent  heaving  of  her  breast,  and 
struggle  for  recovery,  that  showed  how  unusual  the 
emotion  was  with  her. 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and.  evidontlv 


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fiO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

more  in  gratitude  tlian  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed 
and  bound  the  injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before 
her  fragments  of  her  own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she 
had  eaten  of  them,  though  sparingly,  besoueht  her,  be- 
fore resuming  her  road  (which  she  showed  her  anxiety 
to  do),  to  dry  her  clothes  before  the  fire.  Again,  more 
in  gratitude  than  with  any  evidence  of  concern  in  her 
own  behalf,  she  sat  down  m  front  of  it,  and  unbinding 
the  handkerchief  about  her  head,  and  letting  her  thicR 
wet  hair  fall  down  below  her  waist,  sat  drying  it  with 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  blaze. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
head  suddenly,  "that  I  used  to  be  handsome,  once,  I 
believe  I  was — I  know  I  was.     Look  here! " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands;  seizing 
it  as  if  she  would  have  torn  it  out;  then,  threw  it  down 
iigain,  and  flung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a  heap  of 
serpents.  ^ 

"  Are  you  a  stranger  in  this  place?  "  asked  Harriet, 

"A  stranger!"  she  returned,  stopping  between  each 
short  reply,  and  looking  at  the  iire,  "Yes.  Ten  or  a 
dozen  years  a  stranger.  I  have  had  no  almanack  where 
I  have  been.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years.  I  don't  know  this 
part.     It's  much  altered  since  I  went  away." 

"  Have  YOU  been  far?  " 

"Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea  and  far 
away  even  then,  I  have  been  where  convicts  go,"  she 
added,  looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  "  I  have  been 
one  myself." 

"  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you! "  was  the  gentle 
answer, 

"  Ah!  Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me! "  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  "If  man  would  help  some 
of  us  a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner 
perhaps. " 

But  she  was  softened  by  the  earnest  manner,  and  the 
cordial  face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judg- 
ment of  her,  and  said,  less  hardily: 

"  We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  I.  If  I  am 
older,  it  is  not  above  a  year  or  two.     Oh  think  of  that! " 

She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her 
outward  form  would  show  the  moral  wretch  she  was; 
and  letting  them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head, 

"There  IS  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair;  it  is 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  31 

never  too  late  to  amend,"  said  Harriet.  "  You  are  pen- 
itent— " 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  not!  I  can't  be.  I  am 
no  such  thing.  Why  should  /  be  penitent,  and  all  the 
world  go  free.  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitencs;. 
Who's  penitent  for  the  wrongs  that  have  been  done  to 
me! " 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head, 
and  turned  to  move  away. 

'■  Where  are  vou  going?  "  said  Harriet. 

"Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand. 
"To  London  " 

"  Have  you  any  home  to  go  to?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  a  mother.  She's  as  much  a  mother 
as  her  dwelling  is  a  home,"  she  answered  with  a  bitter 
lauG^h. 

"Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her  hand. 
"  Try  to  do  well.  It  is  very  little,  but  for  one  day  it 
may  keep  you  from  harm. 

"Are  you  married?"  said  the  other,  faintly,  as  she 
took  it. 

"No.  I  live  beep  with  my  brother.  We  have  not 
much  to  spare,  or  I  would  give  you  more." 

"  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you?  " 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object 
of  her  charitv  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question, 
and  pressed  ner  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  more  she 
caught  her  arm,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it;  and  then 
was  gone. 

Qone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  howling  wind,  and 
pelting  rain;  urging  her  way  on  towards  the  mist- 
enshrouded  city  where  the  blurred  lights  gleamed;  and 
with  her  black  hair,  and  disordered  head-gear,  flutter- 
ing round  her  reckless  face. 


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52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ANOTHER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

In  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and 
dark  too,  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  crouch- 
ing over  a  meagre  fire.  More  constant  to  the  last-named 
occupation  than  the  first,  she  never  changed  her  atti- 
tude, unless,  when  any  stray  drops  of  rain  fell  hissing 
on  the  smouldering  embers,  to  raise  her  head  with  an 
awakened  attention  to  the  whistling  and  pattering  out- 
side, and  gradually  to  let  it  fall  again  lower  and  Tower 
and  lower  as  she  sunk  into  a  brooding  state  of  thought, 
in  which  the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly  re- 
garded as  is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a  sea  by  one  who 
sits  in  contemplation  on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the 
fire  afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like 
the  eye  of  a  fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  ob- 

t'ecta  that  needed  to  be  jealous  of  a  better  display.  A 
leap  of  rags,  a  heap  of  bones,  a  w?etched  bed,  two  or 
three  mutilated  chairs  or  stools,  the  black  walls  and 
blacker  ceiling,  were  all  its  winking  brightness  shone 
upon.  As  the  old  woman,  with  a  gigantic  and  distorted 
image  of  herself,  thrown  half  upon  the  wall  behind  her, 
half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat  bending  over  the  few 
loose  bricks  within  which  it  was  pent,  on  the  damp 
hearth  of  the  chimney^ — for  there  was  no  stove — she 
looked  as  if  she  were  watching  at  some  witch's  altar  for 
a  favorable  token ;  and,  but  that  the  movement  of  her 
chattering  jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  too  frequent 
and  too  fast  for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it  would 
have  seemed  an  illusion  wrought  by  the  light,  as  it 
came  and  went,  upon  a  face  as  motionless  as  the  fomi 
to  which  it  belonged. 

If  Florence  coxdd  have  stood  within  the  room  and 
looked  upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon 
the  wall  and  roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a 
glance  might  have  sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  Good 
Mrs.  Brown ;  notwithstanding  that  her  childish  recollec- 
tion of  that  terrible  old  woman  was  as  grotesque  and 
exaggerated  a  presentment  of  the  truth,  perhaps,  as  the 
shadow  on  the  wall.    But  Florence  was  not  there  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  53 

look  on;  and  Good  Mrs  Brown  remained  unrecognised, 
and  sat  staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a  louder  sputtering  than  usual,  as  the 
rain  came  hissing  down  the  chimney  in  a  little  stream, 
the  old  woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen 
afresh.  And  this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again;  for  there 
was  a  hand  upon  the  door,  and  a  footstep  in  the  room. 

"  Who's  that?  "  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder, 

"One  who  brings  you  news,"  was  the  answer,  in  a 
woman's  voice. 

"  News?    Where  from?" 

"From  abroad," 

"  From  beyond  seas?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  starting 
up. 

"Ay,  from  beyond  seas." 

The  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together,  hurriedly,  and 

foing  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the 
oor,  and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put 
her  hand  upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  un- 
resisting figure  so  as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the 
fire.  She  did  not  find  what  she'had  expected,  whatever 
that  might  be;  for  she  let  the  cloak  go  again,  and  ut- 
tered a  querulous  cry  of  disappointment  and  misery. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  her  visitor. 

"Oho!  Oho!*'  cried  the  old  woman,  turning  her  face 
upward,  with  a  terrible  howl. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  visitor  again. 

"It's  not  mvgal!"cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up 
her  arms,  and  clasping  her  hands  above  her  head. 
"  Where'smy  Ahce?  Where's  my  handsome  daughter? 
They've  been  the  death  of  her! " 

"They've  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name's 
Marwood,"  said  the  visitor. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  gal,  then?  "  cried  the  old  woman. 
"  Has  she  wrote  to  me?  ' 

"She  said  you  couldn't  read,"  returned  the  other. 

"No  more  I  can!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

"Have  you  no  light  here?"  said  the  other,  looking 
round  the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head,  and 
muttering  to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter, 
brought  a  candle  from  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  and 
thrusting  it  into  the  fire  with  a  trembling  hand,  lighted 


54  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

it  with  some  diflScult^  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty 
wick  burnt  dimly  at  first,  being  choked  in  its  own  Rrease. 
and  when  the  bleared  eyes  and  failing  sight  of  the  ola 
woman  could  distingTiish  anything  by  its  light,  her  vis- 
itor was  sitting  with  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes  turned 
downwards,  and  a  handkercliief  she  had  worn  upon  her 
liead  lying  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

"  She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  my  gal, 
Alice?"  mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for  some 
moments.     "  What  did  she  say?  " 

"Look,"  returned  the  visitor. 

The  old  woman  repeated  the  word  in  a  scared  sort  of 
a  way;  and,  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker, 
round  the  room,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 

"Alice  said  look  again  motner;"  and  the  speaker  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  at 
her  visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily 
seizing  the  candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it 
to  the  visitor's  face,  uttered  a  loud  cry,  set  down  the 
light,  and  fell  upon  her  nepk! 

"  It's  my  gal!  It's  my  Alice!  It's  my  handsome  daugh- 
ter, living  and  come  back!"  screamed  the  old  woman, 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that  coldly 
suffered  her  embrace.  "Its  my  gal!  It's  my  Alice! 
It's  my  handsome  daughter,  living  and  come  back!"  she 
screamed  again,  droppmg  on  the  floor  before  her,  clasp- 
ing her  knees,  laying  her  head  against  them,  and  still 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  with  every  frantic  demonstra- 
tion of  which  her  vitality  was  capable. 

"Yes,  mother,"  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for 
a  moment,  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavoring,  even  in 
the  act,  to  disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  "I  am 
here,  at  last.  Let  go,  mother;  let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit 
in  your  chair.     What  good  does  this  do?" 

"She's  come  back  harder  than  she  went!"  cried  the 
mother,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her 
knees.  "She  don't  care  for  me!  after  all  these  years, 
and  all  the  wretched  life  I've  led!" 

"  Why,  mother! "  said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged  skirts 
to  detach  the  old  woman  from  them:  "there  are  two 
sides  to  that.  There  have  been  years  for  me  as  ivell  as 
you,  and  there  has  been  wretchedness  for  me  as  well  as 
you.    Get  up,  get  up! " 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  55 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands, 
and  stood  at  a  little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she 
took  the  candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  surveyed 
her  from  head  to  foot,  making  a  low  moaning  all  the 
time.  Then  she  put  the  candle  down,  resumed  her 
chair,  and  beating  ner  hands  together  to  a  kind  of  weary 
tune,  and  rolling  herself  from  side  to  side,  continued 
moaning  and  wailing  to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  off  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside. 
That  done,  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms 
folded,  and  her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently 
listeninc  with  a  contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother  s 
inarticulate  complainings. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I 
went  away,  mother?"  she  said  at  length,  turning  her 
eyes  upon  the  old  woman.  "  Did  you  think  a  foreign 
life,  like  mine,  was  good  for  good  looks?  One  would 
believe  so,  to  hear  you!" 

"  It  an't  that!  "  cried  the  mother.     "  She  knows  it! "  . 

"  What  is  it  then?  "  returned  the  daughter,  "  It  had 
best  be  something  that  don't  last,  mother,  or  my  way 
out  Ib  easier  than  my  way  in." 

"  Hear  that! "  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  After  all  these 
years  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of  her 
coming  back  again!" 

"I  tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have 
been  years  for  me  as  well  as  vou,"  said  Alice.  "  Come 
back  harder?  Of  course  I  nave  come  back  harder. 
What  else  did  you  expect?" 

"Harder  to  me!  To  her  own  dear  mother!  "cried  the 
old  woman. 

"I  don't  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own 
dear  mother  didn't,"  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded 
arms,  and  knitted  brows,  and  compressed  lips  as  if  she 
were  bent  on  excluding,  by  force,  every  softer  feeling 
from  her  breast.  "Listen,  mother,  to  a  word  or  two. 
If  we  understand  each  other  now,  we  shall  not  fall  out 
any  more  perhaps.  I  went  away  a  girl,  and  have  come 
back  a  woman.  I  went  away  unmitiful  enough,  and 
have  come  back  no  better,  you  may  swear.  But  have 
you  been  very  dutiful  to  me?  " 

"I!"  cried  the  old  woman.  "To  my  own  gal!  A 
mother  dutiful  to  her  own  child!" 

"  It  sounds  unnatural,  don't  it?"  returned  the  d^u^- 


56  r>OMBEY  AND  SON. 

ter,  looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  etern,  regardlesa, 
hardy,  beautiful  face;  "but  I  have  thought  of  it  some- 
times, in  the  course  of  my  lone  years,  till  I  have  got 
used  to  it.  I  have  heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and 
last;  but  it  has  always  been  of  my  duty  to  other  people. 
I  have  wondered  now  and  then — to  pass  away  the  tune 
—whether  no  one  ever  owed  any  duty  to  me.' 

Her  mother  sat  mowing,  and  mumoling,  and  shaking 
her  head,  but  whether  angrily,  or  remorsefully,  or  in 
denial,  or  only  in  her  physical  infirmity,  did  not  appear. 

"There  was  a  child  called  Alice  Marwood,'"  said  the 
dai^ghter,  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in 
terrible  derision  of  herself,  "born,  among  poverty  and 
neglect,  and  nursed  in  it.  Nobody  taught  ner,  nobody 
stepped  forward  to  help  her,  nobody  cared  for  her." 

"Nobody!"  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself, 
and  striking  her  breast. 

''The  only  care  she  knew,"  returned  the  daughter, 
"  was  to  be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes; 
aiid  she  might  have  done  better  without  that.  She  lived 
in  homes  like  this,  and  in  the  streets,  with  a  crowd  of 
little  wretches  like  herself;  and  yet  she  brought  good 
looks  out  of  this  childhood.  So  much  the  worse  for  ner. 
She  had  better  have  been  hunted  and  worried  to  death 
for  ugliness," 

"Goon!  gooni"  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  I  am  going  on,"  returned  the  daughter.  "  There  was 
a  girl  called  Alice  Marwood.  She  was  handsome.  She 
was  taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was  too 
well  cared  for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on,  too 
much  looked  after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her — you 
were  better  off  then.  What  came  to  that  girl  comes  to 
thousands  every  year.  It  was  only  ruin,  and  she  was 
born  to  it." 

'  'After  all  these  years  I "  whined  the  old  woman.  "  My 
gal  begins  with  this." 

"  She'll  soon  have  ended,"  said  the  daughter.  "  There 
wEis  a  criminal  called  Alice  Marwood— a  girl  still,  but 
deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried,  and  she 
was  sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the 
court  talked  about  it!  and  how  grave  tne  iudge  was,  on 
her  duty,  and  on  her  having  pervertea  the  gifts  of 
nature — as  if  he  didn't  know  better  than  anybody  there, 
that  they  had  been  made  curses  to  her! — and  how  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  57 

preached  about  the  strong  arm  of  the  Law — 60  very 
strong  to  save  her,  when  she  was  an  innocent  and  help- 
less little  wretch!  and  how  solemn  and  religious  it  all 
was!  I  have  thought  of  that,  many  times  since,  to  be 
sure!" 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed 
in  a  tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  muBical. 

"So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,"  she 
pursued,  "  and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there 
was  twenty  times  less  dutv,  and  more  wickedness,  and 
wrong,  and  infamy,  than  nere.  And  Alice  Marwood  is 
come  oack  a  woman.  Such  a  woman  as  she  ought  to 
be,  after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there  will  be  more 
solemnity,  and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong  arm, 
most  likely,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her;  hut  the 
gentlemen  needn't  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of 
work.  There's  crowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl, 
growing  up  in  any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that'll 
keep  them  to  it  till  they've  made  their  fortunes," 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
resting  her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a  show  of 
being  m  great  distress — or  really  was,  perhaps. 

"Therel  I  have  done,  mother,"  said  the  daughter, 
with  a  motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  sub- 
ject. "  I  have  said  enough.  Don't  let  you  and  I  talk 
of  being  dutiful,  whatever  we  do.  Your  childhood  was 
like  mine,  I  suppose.  So  much  the  worse  for  both  of  us. 
I  don't  want  to  blame  you,  or  to  defend  myself;  why 
should  I?  That's  all  over,  long  ago.  But  I  aiu  a  woman 
— not  a  girl,  now— and  you  and  I  needn't  make  a  show 
of  our  history,  like  the  gentlemen  in  the  court.  We 
know  all  about  it,  well  enough." 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a  beauty  in 
her,  both  of  face  and  form,  which,  even  in  its  worst  ex- 
pression, could  not  but  be  recognised  as  such  by  any 
one  regarding  her  with  the  least  attention.  As  she  sub- 
sided into  silence,  and  her  face  which  had  been  harshly 
agitated,  quieted  down;  while  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  upon 
the  fire,  exchanged  the  reckless  light  that  had  animated 
them,  for  one  that  was  softened  by  something  like  sor- 
row ;  there  shone  through  all  her  way-worn  misery 
and  fatigue,  a  ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of  the  fallen 
angel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  wltlvovA 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


68  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

speaking,  venturec]  to  steal  her  T-ithered  hand  a  little 
nearer  to  her  across  the  table;  and  tinding  that  she  per- 
mitted this,  to  touch  her  face,  aud  Bmooth  her  hair. 
With  the  feeling,  aa  it  seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was 
at  least  sincere  in  this  show  of  interest,  Alice  made  no 
movement  to  check  her,  so,  advancing  by  degrees,  she 
bound  up  her  daughter's  hair  afresh,  took  off  her  wet 
shoes,  if  they  deserved  the  name,  spread  something  dry 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  hovered  humbly  about  her, 
muttering  to  herself,  as  she  recognised  her  old  features 
and  expression  more  and  more. 

"  You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I  see,"  said  Alice,  look- 
ing round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

"  Bitter  poor,  my  deary,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her. 
Perhaps  her  admiration,  such  as  it  was,  had  originated 
long  ago,  when  she  first  found  anything  that  was  beau- 
tiful appearing  in  the  midst  of  tlie  squalid  fight  of  her 
existence.  Perhaps  her  fear  was  referable,  in  some 
sort,  to  the  retro8i>ect  she  had  so  lately  heard.  Be  this 
as  it  might,  she  stood,  submissively  and  deferentially, 
before  her  child,  and  inclined  her  head,  as  if  in  a  pitiful 
entreaty  to  be  spared  any  further  reproach. 

'■  How  have  you  lived?" 

"  By  begging,  my  deary." 

"And  pmermg,  mother?" 

"Sometimes,  Ally — in  a  very  small  way.  I  am  old 
and  timid.  I  have  taken  triHes  from  children  now  and 
then,  my  deary,  but  not  often.  I  have  tramped  about 
the  country,  pet,  and  I  know  what  I  know.  I  have 
watched." 

"  Watched?"  returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  have  hung  about  a  family,  my  deary,  said  the 
mother,  even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  be- 
fore. 

"What  family?" 

"  Hush,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  with  me;  I  did  it 
for  the  love  of  you.  In  raemorv  of  my  poor  gal  beyond 
seas."  She  put  out  her  hand  ueprecatingly,  aud  draw- 
ing it  back  again,  laid  it  on  her  lips. 

"Years  ago,  my  deary,"  she  pursued,  glancing  tim- 
idly at  the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her.  ''I 
came  across  his  little  child,  by  chance." 

"Whose  child?". 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  59 

"  Not  his,  Alice  deary;  don't  look  at  me  like  that; 
not  his.  How  could  it  he  his?  You  know  he  has 
none." 

"Whose  then?"  returned  the  daughter.  "You  said 
his." 

"  Hush,  Ally;  you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dombey's 
— only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I  have  seen 
them  often.     I  have  seen  him." 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and 
recoiled,  as  if  with  a  sudden  fear  that  her  daughter 
would  strike  her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was 
fixed  upon  her,  and  expressed  the  most  vehement  pas- 
sion, she  remained  still:  except  that  she  clenched  her 
arms  tighter  and  tighter  within  each  other,  on  her 
bosom,  as  if  to  restrain  them  by  that  means  from  doing 
an  injury  to  herself,  or  some  one  else,  in  the  blind  fury 
of  the  wrath  that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

"  Little  he  thought  who  I  was! "  said  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  clenched  hand. 

"And  little  he  caredl"  muttered  her  daughter,  be- 
tween her  teeth. 

"But  there  we  were,"  said  the  old  woman,  "face  to 
face.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I  sat  and 
watched  him  as  he  went  away  down  a  long  grove  of 
trees;  and  at  every  step  he  tooK,  I  cursed  him  soul  and 
body." 

"He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daugh- 
ter, disdainfully. 

"  Ay,  he  is  thriving,"  said  the  mother. 

She  held  her  peace;  for  the  face  and  form  before  her 
were  unshaped  by  rage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bosom 
would  burst  with  the  emotions  that  strove  within  it. 
The  effort  that  constrained  and  held  it  pent  up  was  no 
less  formidable  than  the  rage  itself:  no  less  bespeaking 
the  violent  and  dangerous  character  of  the  woman  who 
made  it.   But  it  succeeded,  and  she  asked,  after  a  silence: 

"  Is  he  married?" 

"  No,  deary,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Goine  to  be?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  deary.  But  his  masteiw  and 
friend  is  married.  ■  Oh,  we  may  give  him  joy!  We  may 
give  'em  all  joy! "  cried  the  old  woinan,  hugging  herself 
with  her  lean  arms  in  her  exultation.  "  Nothing  but 
joy  t^)  us  will  come  of  that  marriage.  •  Mind  wvsi'." 


60  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

"But  you  are  wet  and  tired:  hungry  and  thirsty/'said 
the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard;  "  and  there's 
little  here,  and  little —  diving  down  into  her  pocket, 
and  jingling  a  few  halfpence  on  the  table  — "  little  here. 
Have  you  any  money,  Alice,  deary?" 

The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she 
asked  the  question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took 
out  of  her  bosom  the  little  gift  she  had  so  lately  re- 
ceived, told  almost  as  much  of  the  history  of  this 
parent  and  child  as  the  child  herself  had  told  in 
words. 

' '  Is  that  all  ? "  said  the  mother, 

"  I  have  no  more.  I  should  not  have  this,  but  for 
charity." 

"But  for  charity,  eh,  deair?"  said  the  old  woman, 
bending  greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money, 
which  she  appeared  distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still 
retaining  in  ner  hand,  and  gazing  on.  "Humph!  six 
and  six  is  twelve  and  six  eighteen — so — we  must  make 
the  most  of  it.  I"ll  go  buy  something  to  eat  and 
drink." 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected 
in  one  of  her  appearance— for  age  and  misery  seemed 
to  have  made  her  as  decrepit  as  ugly— she  began  to  oc- 
cupy her  trembling  hands  m  tying  an  old  bonnet  on  her 
head,  and  folding  a  torn  shawl  about  herself:  still  eye- 
ing the  money  in  her  daughter's  hand  with  the  same 
sharp  desire. 

"  What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage, 
mother?  "  asked  the  daughter.  "  You  have  not  told  me 
that." 

"The  joy,"  she  replied,  attiring  herself,  with  fiun- 
bling  fingers,  "of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and 
hate,  my  deary.  The  joy  of  confusion  and  strife 
among  "em,  proud  as  they  are,  and  of  danger — danger, 
Alicel " 

"  What  danger?" 

"  I  have  seen  what  I  have  seen.  /  know  what  I 
knowl"  chuckled  the  mother.  "Let  some  look  to  it. 
Let  Some  be  upon  their  guard.  My  gal  may  keep  good 
company  yet!' 

Then,  seeing  that  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with 
which  her  daughter  regarded  her,  ner  hand  involun- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  fil 

tarily  closed  upon  the  money,  the  old  woman  made 
more  speed  to  secure  it,  and  hurriedly  added,  "  but  I  '11 
go  huy  something. " 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her 
daughter,  her  daughter,  glancing  again  at  the  money, 
put  it  to  her  lips  before  parting  with  it. 

"What,  Ally-  Do  you  kiss  it?"  chuckled  the  old 
woman.  "  That's  like  me — I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so  good 
to  us! "  squeezing  her  own  tarnished  halfpence  up  to  her 
bag  of  a  throat,  '"  so  good  to  us  in  everything  but  not 
coming  in  heaps." 

"  I  kiss  it,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  "  or  I  did  then 
— I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did  before — for  the  giver's 
sake." 

"The  giver,  eh,  deary?"  retorted  the  old  woman, 
whose  dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  "  Ay!  I'll 
kiss  it  for  the  giver^  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can 
make  it  go  farther.  But  I  '11  go  spend  it,  deary.  I  '11 
be  back  firectly." 

"  You  seem  to  say  you  know  a  great  deal,  mother," 
said  the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her 
eyes.     "  You  have  grown  very  wise  since  we  parted." 

"Know!"  croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a 
step  or  two,  "  I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know 
more  than  he  thinks,  deary,  as  I  '11  tell  you  by-and-by. 
I  know  all  about  him." 

The  daughter  smiled  incredulously. 

"  I  know  of  his  brother,  Alice,"  said  the  old  woman, 
stretching  out  her  neck  with  a  leer  of  malice  absolutely 
frightful,  "  who  might  have  been  where  you  have  been 
— for  stealing  money — and  who  lives  with  his  sister, 
overyonder,  by  the  north  road  out  of  London," 

"Where?" 

"  By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  Tou  shall 
see  the  house,  if  you  like.  It  an't  much  to  boast  joi, 
genteel  as  his  own  is.  No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old 
woman  shaking  her  head  and  laughing;  for  her  daugh- 
ter had  started  up,  "  not  now;  it's  too  far  off;  it's  by  the 
milestone,  where  the  stones  are  heaped; — to-morrow, 
deary,  if  it's  fine,  and  you  are  in  the  humor.  But  111 
go  spend — " 

"Stop!"  and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her, 
with  her  former  passion  raging  like  a  fire.  "  The  sister 
is  a  fair-faced  devil  with  brown  hair?" 


63  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  her 
head. 

"I  see  the  shadow  of  him  m  her  face!  It's  a  red 
house  standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door,  there  is  a 
small  green  porch." 

Agam  the  old  woman  nodded. 

"  In  which  I  sat  to-day!    Give  me  back  the  money." 

"Alice!    Deary!" 

"  Give  me  back  the  money,  or  you  '11  be  hurt." 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman's  band  as  she 
spoke,  and  utterly  indifferent  to  her  complainings  and 
entreaties,  threw  on  the  garments  she  had  taken  oCF, 
and  hurried  out  with  headlong  speed. 

The  mother  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could, 
and  expostulating  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
upon  the  wind  and  rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed 
them.  Obdurate  and  fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and 
indifferent  to  all  besides,  the  daughter  defied  the  weather 
and  the  distance,  as  if  she  had  known  no  travel  or  fa- 
tigue, and  made  for  the  house  where  she  had  been 
relieved.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour's  walking,  the 
old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  ventured  to  hold 
by  her  skirts^  but  she  ventured  no  more,  and  they 
travelled  on  in  silence  through  the  wet  and  gloom. 
If  the  mother  now  and  then  uttered  a  word  or  com- 
plaint, she  stifled  it  lest  her  daughter  should  break 
away  from  her  and  leave  her  behind;  and  the  daughter 
was  dumb. 

It  was  within  an  hour  or  bo  of  midnight,  when  they 
left  the  regular  streets  behind  them,  ana  entered  on  the 
deeper  gloom  of  that  neutral  ground  wliere  the  house 
was  situated.  The  town  lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and 
lowering;  the  bleak  wind  howled  over  the  open  space; 
all  around  was  black,  wild,  desolate. 

*'  This  is  a  fit  place  for  me! "  said  the  daughter,  stop- 

Eing  to  look  back.  "  I  thought  so,  when  I  was  here 
efore,  to-day." 

"Alice,  my  deary,"    cried  the  mother,  pulling  her 
gently  by  the  skirt,     "  Alice! " 
"What  now,  mother?" 

"  Don't  give  the  money  back,  my  darling;  please 
don't.  We  can't  afford  it.  We  want  supper,  deary. 
Money  is  money,  wlioever  gives  it.  Say  what  you  will, 
but  keep  the  money." 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  63 

"  See  there: "  was  all  the  daughter's  answer.  "  That 
is  the  house  I  mean.     Is  that  it?  ' 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  affirmative;  and  a  few 
more  paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was 
the  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice 
had  sat  to  dry  her  clothes;  and  on  her  knocking  at  the 
door,  John  Carker  appeared  from  that  room. 

He  was  surprised  to  set;  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour, 
and  asked  Alice  what  she  wanted, 

"I  want  your  sister,"  she  said.  "The  woman  who 
gave  me  money  to-day." 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice,  Harriet  came  out. 

"Oh!"  said  Alice.  "You  are  here!  Do  you  remem- 
ber me?" 

'*  Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her  looked 
on  her  now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defiance; 
and  the  hand  that  had  gently  touched  her  arm  was 
clenched  with  such  a  show  of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would 
gladly  strangle  lier;  that  she  drew  close  to  her  brother 
lor  protection. 

"That  I  could  speak  with  you,  and  not  know  you! 
That  I  could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood 
was  running  in  your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  my  own!" 
said  Alice  with  a  menacing  gesture. 

"What  do  you  mean?    what  have  I  done?" 

"  Done! "  returned  the  other.  "  You  have  sat  me  by 
your  fire;  you  have  given  me  food  and  money;  you 
have  bestowed  your  compassion  on  me!  You!  whose 
name  I  spit  upon!" 

The  old  woman,  with  a  malevolence  that  made  her 
ugliness  quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the 
brother  and  sister  in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but 
plucked  lier  by  the  skirts  again,  nevertheless,  imploring 
her  to  keep  the  money. 

"  If  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  it 
up!  If  I  spoke  a  gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may 
it  deafen  you!  If  I  touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the 
touch  be  poison  to  you!  A  curse  upon  this  roof  that 
gave  me  shelter!  Sorrow  and  shame  upon  your  head! 
Ruin  upon  all  belonging  to  youl " 

As  she  said  the  words,  she  threw  the  money  down 
upon  the  ground,  and  spurned  it  with  her  foot. 

"  I  tread  it  in  the  dust:  I  wouldn't  take  it  if  it  paved. 


64  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

my  way  to  Heaven!  I  wish  the  bleeding  foot  that 
brought  me  here  to-day  had  rotted  off  before  it  led  me 
to  your  house! " 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  hrother, 
and  Buffered  her  to  go  on  uninterrupted. 

"  It  was  well  that  I  should  be  pitied  and  forgiven  by 
you,  or  any  one  of  your  name,  in  the  first  hour  of  my 
return!  It  was  well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  gooti 
lady  to  me!  I'll  thank  you  when  I  die;  I'll  pray  for 
you,  and  all  your  race,  you  may  be  sure!" 

With  a  fierce  action  of  her  band,  as  if  she  sprinkled 
hatred  on  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who 
were  standing  there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  once 
at  the  black  sky,  and  strode  out  into  the  wild  nignt. 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and 
again  in  vain,  and  had  e^ed  the  money  lying  on  the 
threshold  with  an  absorbing  greed  that  seem^  to  con- 
centrate her  faculties  upon  it,  would  have  prowled 
about,  until  the  house  was  dark,  and  then  groped  in  the 
mire  on  the  chance  of  repossessing  hereelf  of  it.  But 
the  daughter  drew  her  away,  and  they  set  forth,  straight, 
on  their  return  to  their  dwelling;  the  old  woman  whim- 

fering  and  bemoaning  their  loss  upon  the  road,  and 
retfully  bewailing,  as  openly  as  she  dared,  the  unduti- 
ful  conduct  of  her  handsome  girl  in  depriving  her  of  a 
supper,  on  the  very  first  night  of  their  reunion. 

Supperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a  few  coarse 
fragments;  and  those  she  sat  mumbfing  and  munching 
over  a  scrap  of  fire,  long  after  her  undutiful  daughter 
lay  asleep. 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miserable 
daughter,  only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade  of 
certain  social  vices  sometimes  prevailing  higher  up?  In 
this  round  world  of  many  circles  within  circles,  do  we 
make  a  weary  journey  from  the  high  grade  to  the  low. 
to  find  at  last  tnat  they  lie  close  together,  that  the  two 
extremes  touch,  and  that  our  journey's  end  is  but  our 
starting-place?  Allowing  for  great  difference  of  stuff 
and  texture,  was  the  pattern  of  this  woof  repeated 
among  gentle  blood  at  all? 

Say,  Edith  Dombey!  And  Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers, 
let  U8  have  your  testimony! 

DigilicJb,  Google 


UOMBEY  AND  SON. 


THE  HAPPY  PAIR. 


The  dark  blot  on  the  street  is  gone.  Mr.  Dombey's 
mansion,  if  it  be  a  gap  among  the  other  houses  any 
longer,  is  only  so  because  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its 
brightness,  and  haughtily  casts  them  off.  The  saying 
is,  that  home  is  home,  be  it  never  so  homely.  If  it  nola 
pood  in  the  opposite  contingency,  and  home  is  home  be 
it  never  so  stately,  what  an  altar  to  the  Household  Gods 
is  raised  up  here! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening, 
and  the  ruddy  glow  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon 
the  hangings  and  soft  carpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to 
be  served,  and  the  dinner-table  is  handsomely  set  forth, 
though  only  for  four  persons,  and  the  sideboard  is  cum- 
brous with  plate.  It  is  the  first  time  that  the  house  has 
been  arranged  for  occupation  since  its  late  changes,  and 
the  happy  pair  are  looked  for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding  morning,  in  the  interest 
and  expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,  is 
this  evening  of  the  coming  home.  Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the 
kitchen  taking  tea;  and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  priced  the  silks  and  damasks  by  the  yard, 
and  exhausted  every  intenection  in  the  dictionary  and 
out  of  it  expressive  of  admiration  and  wonder.  The 
upholsterer's  foreman,  who  has  left  his  hat,  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smelling  strongly  of 
varnish,  under  a  chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about  the  house, 
gazing  upward  at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at  the 
carpets,  and  occasionally,  in  a  silent  transport  of  enjoy- 
ment, taking  a  rule  out  of  his  pocket,  and  skirmishingly 
measuring  expensive  objects,  with  unutterable  feelings. 
Cook  is  in  hign  spirits,  and  says  give  her  a  place  where 
there's  plenty  of  company  (as  she'll  bet  you  sixpence 
there  will  he  now),  for  she  is  of  a  lively  disposition,  and 
she  always  was  from  a  child,  and  she  don  t  mind  who 
knows  it;  which  sentiment  elicits  from  the  breast  of 
Mrs.  Perch  a  responsive  murmur  of  support  and  appro- 
bation. All  the  housemaid  hopes  is,  happiness  for  em 
— but  marriage  is  a  lottery,  and  the  more  she  thinks 
about  it,  the  more  she  feels  the  indeipetvAeT^o.^  a.'o&.'OBa 


66  DOMBEY  AND  SOH". 

safety  of  a  single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  saturnine  and 
grim,  and  says  that's  bis  opinion  too,  and  give  him  war 
besides,  and  down  with  the  French — for  this  young  man 
has  a  general  impression  that  every  foreigner  is  a 
Frenchman,  and  must  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever 
they  are  saving,  and  listen;  and  more  than  once  there 
is  a  general  starting  up  and  a  cry  of  "  Here  they  are! " 
But  here  they  are  not  yet;  and  cook  begins  to  mourn 
over  the  dinner,  which  has  been  put  back  twice,  and 
the  upholsterer's  foreman  still  goes  lurking  about  the 
rooms,  undisturbed  in  his  blissful  reverie! 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new 
mama.  Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in 
her  breast  originate  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly 
knows.  But  tne  fluttering  heart  sends  added  color  to 
her  cheeks,  and  brightness  to  her  eyes;  and  they  sav 
down-stairs,  drawing  their  heads  together— few  they  al- 
ways speak  softly  wnen  they  speak  of  her — how  beau- 
tiful Miss  Florence  looks  to-night,  and  what  a  sweet 
young  lady  she  has  grown,  poor  dear!  A  pause  suc- 
ceeds; and  then  cook,  feeling  as  president,  that  her  sen- 
timents are  waited  for,  wonders  whether — and  there 
stops.  The  housemaid  wonders  too,  and  so  does  Mrs. 
Perch,  who  has  the  happy  social  faculty  of  always  won- 
dering when  other  people  wonder,  without  being  at  all 
particular  what  she  wonders  at.  Mr.  Towlinson,  who 
now  descries  an  opportunity  of  bringing  down  the 
spirits  of  the  ladies  to  his  own  level,  says  wait  and  see: 
he  wishes  some  people  were  well  out  of  this.  Cook 
leads  a  sigh  then,  and  a  murmur  of  "  Ah,  it's  a  strange 
world, — it  ia  indeed! "  and  when  it  has  gone  round  the 
table,  adds  persuasively,  "  but  Miss  Florence  can't  well 
be  the  worse  for  any  change,  Tom."  Mr.  Towlinson's 
rejoinder,  pregnant  with  frightful  meaning,  is,  "Oh, 
can't  she  tnoughl  '  and  sensible  that  a  mere  man  can 
scarcely  be  more  prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he 
holds  his  peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter 
and  dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately 
attired  for  that  purpose  in  a  very  youthful  costume, 
with  short  sleeves.  At  present,  however,  her  ripe 
charms  are  blooming  in  the  shade  of  her  own  apart- 
ments, whence  she  has  not  emerged  since  she  took  pos- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  67 

sessiou  of  them  a  few  hours  ago,  aud  where  she  is  fast 
growing  fretful  on  account  of  the  postponement  of  din- 
ner. The  maid  who  ought  to  be  a  skeleton,  but  is  in 
truth  a  buxom  damsel,  is,'  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  most 
amiable  state;  considering  her  quarterly  stipend  much 
safer  than  heretofore,  and  foreseeing  a  great  improve- 
ment in  her  board  and  lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair  for  whom  this  brave  home 
is  waiting?  Do  steam,  tide,  wind,  and  horses,  all  abate 
their  speed  to  linger  on  such  happiness?  Does  the 
swarm  of  loves  and  graces  hovering  about  them  retard 
their  progress  by  ite  numbers?  Are  there  so  many 
flowers  in  their  happy  path  that  they  can  scarcely 
move  along  without  entanglement  in  thornless  roses 
and  sweetest  briar? 

They  are  here  at  last!  The  noise  of  wheels  is  heard, 
grows  louder,  and  a  carriage  drives  up  to  the  doorl  A 
thundering  knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner  antici- 
pates the  rush  of  Mr,  Towlinson  and  party  to  open  it; 
and  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  bride  alight,  and  walk  in  arm 
and  arm. 

"  My  sweetest  Edith!"  cries  an  agitated  voice  upon 
the  stairs.  "My  dearest  Dombey!"  and  the  snort 
sleeves  wreath  themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in 
turn,  and  embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  down  to  the  hall  too,  but  did 
not  advance:  reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  these 
nearer  and  dearer  transports  should  subside.  But  the 
eyes  of  Edith  sought  her  out,  upon  the  threshold;  and 
dismissing  her  sensitive  parent  with-  a  slight  kiss 
on  the  cheek  she  hurried  on  to  Florence  and  embraced 
her. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Florence?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  put- 
ting out  his  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met 
his  glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but 
it  stirred  her  heart  to  think  that  she  observed  in  it 
something  more  of  interest  than  he  hatl  ever  shown  be- 
fore. It  even  expressed  a  kind  of  faint  surprise,  and 
not  a  disagreeable  surprise,  at  sight  of  her.  She  dared 
not  raise  her  eyes  to  his  any  more;  but  she  felt  that  he 
looked  at  her  once  again,  and  not  less  favorably.  Oh! 
what  a  thrill  of  joy  snot  through  her,  awakened  by  eve-a. 
this  intangible  and  baseless  confirmaUon  ol  V-ot  Vw^ 


68  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  she  would  learn  to  win  him,  through  her  new  and 
beautiful  mama! 

"  You  will  not  be  long  dressing,  Mrs.  Dombey,  1 
presume?"  said  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  I  fhall  be  ready  immediately." 

"  Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a  quarter  o£  an  hour." 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  away  to  his  own  dress-, 
ing-room,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up-stairs  to  hers.  Mrs. 
Skewton  and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  that  excellent  mother  considered  it  incumbent  on 
her  to  shed  a  few  irrepressible  tears,  supposed  to  be 
forced  from  her  by  her  daughter's  felicity;  and  which 
she  was  still  drying,  very  gingerly,  with  a  laced  comer 
of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  when  her  son-in-law  ap- 
peared. 

"And  how,  my  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that  de- 
lightfuUest  of  cities,  Paris?"  she  asked,  subduing  her 
emotion, 

"  It  was  cold,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Gay  as  ever,"  said  Mrs,  Skewton,  "  of  course." 

"  Not  particularly,  I  thought  it  dull,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

■'  Fie,  my  dearest  Dombey!"  archly;  "  dull!" 

' '  It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  madam,"  said  Mr, 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness,  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey found  it  dull  too.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice 
that  she  thought  it  so." 

"Why,  you  naughtv  girll"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  ral- 
lying her  dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "  what  dreadfully 
heretical  things  have  you  been  saying  about  Paris?  " 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrows  with  an  air  of  weariness; 
and  passing  the  folding-doors,  which  were  thrown  open 
to  display  the  suite  of  rooms  in  their  new  and  handsome 
garniture,  and  barely  glancing  at  them  as  she  passed, 
sat  down  by  Florence. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  how 
charmingly  these  people  have  carried  out  every  idea 
that  we  ninted.  They  have  made  a  perfect  palace  of 
the  house,  positively." 

"It  is  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round. 
"I directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared;  and  all 
that  money  could  do,  has  been  done,  I  believe." 

"And  what  can  it  not  do,  dear  Dombey?"  observed 
Cleopatra. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  6ft 

"  It  is  powerful,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

He  looKed  in  his  solemn  way  towards  his  wife,  but 
not  a  word  said  she. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  addressing  her  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  with  especial  distinctness;  "that  these 
alterations  meet  with  your  approval?  " 

"They  are  as  handsome  asthejcanbe,"Ehe  returned, 
with  haughty  carelessness.  "They  should  be  so,  of 
course.     And  I  suppose  they  are." 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face, 
and  seemed  inseparable  from  it;  but  the  contempt  with 
which  it  received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or 
consideration  on  the«  ground  of  hie  riches,  no  matter 
how  slight  or  ordinary  m  itself,  was  a  new  and  different 
expression,  unequalled  in  intensity  by  any  other  of 
which  it  was  capable.  Whether  Mr.  Dombey,  wrapped 
in  his  own  greatness,  was  at  all  aware  of  this,  or  no, 
there  had  not  been  wanting  opportunities  already  for 
his  complete  enlightenment;  and  at  that  moment  it 
might  have  been  effected  by  the  one  glance  of  the  dark 
eye  that  lighted  on  him,  after  it  had  rapidly  and  scorn- 
fully surveyed  the  theme  of  his  self-glorification.  He 
might  have  read  in  that  one  glance  that  nothing  that  his 
wealth  could  do,  though  it  were  increased  ten  thousand 
fold,  could  win  him  for  its  own  sake,  one  look  of 
softened  recognition  from  the  defiant  woman,  linked  to 
him,  but  arrayed  with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He 
might  have  read  in  that  one  glance  that  even  for  its 
sordid  and  mercenary  influence  upon  herself,  she 
spumed  it,  while  she  claimed  its  utmost  power  as  her 
right,  her  bargain — as  the  base  and  worthless  recom- 

{)en8e  for  which  she  had  become  his  wife.  He  might 
lave  read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her  own  head  for  the 
lightning  of  her  own  contempt  and  pride  to  strike,  the 
most  innocent  allusion  to  the  power  of  his  riches  degraded 
her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in  her  own  respect,  and 
made  the  blight  and  waste  within  her  more  complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  a  nd  Mr.  DomlTey  led  down 
Cleopatra;  Edith  and  his  daughter  following.  Sweeping 
past  the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  sideboard 
asif  it  were  heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to  bestow  no 
look  upon  the  elegancies  around  her,  she  "took  her  place 
at  his  board  for  the  first  time,  and  sat,  like  a  stetwa,  ^ 
the  feast.  • 


70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Donibey,  being:  a  good  deal  in  the  statue  way  him- 
self, was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife 
immovable  and  proud  and  cold.  Her  deportment  being 
always  elegant  and  graceful,  this  as  a  general  behavior 
was  agreeable  and  congenial  to  him.  Presiding,  there- 
fore, with  his  accustomed  dignity,  and  not  at  all  reflect- 
ing on  his  wife  by  any  warmth  or  hilarity  of  his  own, 
he  performed  hie  share  of  the  honors  of  the  table  with 
a  cool  satisfaction;  and  the  installation  dinner,  though 
not  regarded  down-stairs  as  a  great  success,  or  very 
promismg  beginning,  passed  off,  above,  in  a  sufficiently 
polite,  genteel,  and  frosty  manner. 

Sopu  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  ii^o  affected  to  be  quite 
overcome  and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness, 
arising  in  the  contemplation  of  her  dear  child  united  to 
the  man  of  her  heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to  sup- 
pose, found  this  family  party  somewhat  dull,  as  she 
yawned  for  one  hour  contmually  behind  her  fan,  retired 
to  bed.  Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew  and  came  back 
no  more.  Thus,  it  happened  that  Florence,  who  had 
been  up-stairs  to  have  some  conversation  with  Diogenes, 
returning  to  the  drawing-room  with  her  little  work- 
basket,  found  no  one  there  but  her  father,  who  was 
walking  to  and  fro,  in  dreary  magnificence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Shall  I  go  away,  papa? "said 
Florence  faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

"  No,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round  over  his 
shoulder;  "  you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you 
please.     This  is  not  my  private  room." 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a  distant  little 
table  with  her  work;  finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life — for  the  very  first  time  within  her  memory 
from  her  infancy  to  that  hour — alone  with  her  father, 
as  his  companion.  She,  his  natural  companion,  his 
only  child,  who  in  her  lonely  life  .and  grief  had 
known  the  suffering  of  a  breaking  heart;  who,  in 
her  rejected  love,  had  never  breathed  his  name  to 
God  at  ni^t  but  with  a  tearful  blessing,  heavier  on 
liim  than  a  curse;  who  had  prayed  to  die  young,  so  she 
might  only  die  in  his  arms;  who  had,  all  through,  re- 
paid the  agony  of  slight  and  coldness,  and  dislike,  with 
patient  unexacting  love,  excusing  him,  and  pleading  for 
nim,  like  his  better  angel! 

She  trembled,  and  her  ey«8  were  dim.      Hie  figure 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  71 

seemed  to  grow  in  height  and  bulk  before  her  as  he 
paced  the  room;  now  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct; 
now  clear  again,  and  plain;  and  now  she  seemed  to 
think  that  this  had  happened,  just  the  same,  a  multi- 
tude, of  years  ago.  She  yearned  towards  him,  and  yet 
shrunk  from  his  approach.  Unnatural  emotion  in  a 
child,  innocent  of  wrong!  Unnatural  the  hand  that  had 
directed  the  sharp  plough  which  furrowed  up  her 
gentle  nature  for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her 
distress,  Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at 
her  work.  After  a  few  more  turns  across  and  across  the 
room,  he  left  off  pacing  it;  and  withdrawing  into  a 
shadowy  comer  at  some  distance,  where  there  was  an 
easy-chair,  covered  his  head  with  a  handkerchief,  and 
composed  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there,  watching 
him;  turning  her  eyes  towards  his  chair  from  time  to 
time;  watching  him  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face 
was  intent  upon  her  work;  and  sorrowfully  glad  to 
think  that  he  coii/d  sleep,  while  she  was  there,  and  that 
he  was  not  made  restless  by  her  strange  and  long-for- 
bidden presence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  had  known 
that  he  was  steadily  regarding  her;  that  the  veil  upon 
his  face,  by  accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  tnat 
bis  sight  was  free,  and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her 
face  an  instant.  That  when  she  looked  towards  him, 
in  the  obscure  dark  comer,  her  speaking  eyes,  more  ear- 
nest and  pathetic  in  their  voiceless  speech  than  all  the 
orators  of  all  the  world,  and  impeaching  him  more  nearly 
in  their  mute  address,  met  his,  and  did  not  know  it.  That 
when  she  bent  her  head  again  over  her  work,  he  drew  his 
breath  more  easily,  but  with  the  same  attention  looked 
upon  her  still — upon  her  white  brow  and  her  falling 
hair,  and  busy  hands;  and  once  attracted,  seemed  to 
have  no  power  to  turn  his  eyes  away! 

And  wnat  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile?  With  what 
emotions  did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly 
directed  on  his  unknown  daughter?  Was  there  reproach 
to  him  in  the  quiet  figure  and  the  mild  e^es?  Had  he 
begun  to  feel  her  disregarded  claims,  and  did  they  touch 
him  home  at  last,  and  waken  him  to  some  seuse  ol  V^-% 
cruel  injustice? 


72  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

There  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  steni- 
eet  and  liarsnest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their 
secret  well.  The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty.almost  changed 
into  a  woman  without  his  knowledge,  may  have  struck 
out  some  such  moments  even  in  his  life  of  pride.    Some 

gassing  thought  that  he  had  had  a  happy  Lome  within 
is  reach — had  had  a  household  spirit  hending  at  his  feet 
— had  overlooked  it  in  his  stiff-necked  sullen  arrogance, 
and  wandered  away  and  lost  himself — ^may  have  en- 
gendered them.  Some  simple  eloquence  distinctly  heard, 
wiough  only  uttered  in  her  eyes,  unconscious  that  he 
read  them,  as  "By  the  death-beds  I  have  tended,  by 
the  childhood  I  have  suffered,  by  our  meeting  in  this 
dreary  house  at  midnight,  by  the  cry  wrung  fromrae  in 
the  anguish  of  my  heart,  O  father,  turn  to  me  and  seek 
a  refuge  in  my  love  before  it  is  too  late!"  may  have 
arrested  them.  Meaner  and  lower  thoughts,  as  that  his 
dead  boy  wag  now  superseded  by  new  ties,  and  he  could 
forgive  the  having  been  supplanted  in  his  affection, 
may  have  occasioned  them.  The  mere  association  of 
her  as  an  ornament,  with  all  the  ornament  and  pomp 
about  him,  may  have  been  sufficient.  But  as  he  looked, 
he  softened  to  her.  more  and  more.  As  he  looked,  she 
became  blended  with  the  child  he  had  loved,  and  he 
could  hardly  separate  the  two.  As  he  looked,  he  saw 
her  for  an  instant  by  a  clearer  and  a  brighter  light,  not 
bending  over  that  cnild's  pillow  as  his  rival — monstrous 
thought — but  as  the  spirit  of  his  home,  and  in  the  action 
tendmg  himself  no  less,  as  he  sat  once  more  with  his 
bowed-down  head  upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the  little 
bed.  He  felt  inclined  to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her  to 
him.  The  words  "  Florence,  come  berel"  were  rising 
to  his  lips — slowly  and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so  very 
strange — when  they  were  checked  and  stiSed  by  a  foot- 
step on  the  stair. 

It  was  his  wife's.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner 
dress  for  a  loose  robe,  and  had  unbound  her  hair,  which 
fell  freely  about  her  neck.  But  this  was  not  the  change 
iu  her  that  startled  him. 

"  Florence,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  looking  for 
you  everywhere." 

As  she  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She 
was  so  changed.    It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7ii 

new  to  him — though  that  he  Jiad  never  seen;  hut  her 
manner,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  the  Jight  of  her  eyes,  the 
interest  and  confidence,  and  winning  wish  to  please, 
expressed  in  all — this  was  not  Edith. 

"Softly,  dear  mama.     Papa  is  asleep." 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  towards  the  comer 
where  he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very 
well. 

"  I  scarcely  thought  you  could  he  here,  Florence." 

Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant! 

"Ileft  here  early,"  pursued  Edith,  "  purposely  to  sit 
up-stairs  and  talk  with  you.  But,  going  to  your  room, 
I  found  my  bird  was  flown,  and  I  liave  been  waiting 
there  ever  since,  expecting  its  return." 

If  it  had  been  a  bird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  taken 
it  more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast  than  she  did 
Florence. 

"Come,  dear!" 

"  Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  me,  I  suppose,  when  lie 
wakes, '  hesitated  Florence.     . 

■'  Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence?"  said  Edith,  looking 
full  upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her 
work-basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm, 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very 
step  was  different  and  new  to  hira,  Mr.  Dombey  thought, 
as  his  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadowy  corner  so  long  that  the  church 
clocks  struck  the  hour  three  times  before  be  moyed  that 
night.  All  that  while,  his  face  was  still  intent  upon  the 
spot  where  Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room  grew 
darker,  as  the  candles  waned  and  went  out;  but  a  dark- 
ness gathered  on  his  face,  exceeding  any  that  the  night 
could  cast,  and  rested  there. 

Florence  and  Edith,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  re- 
mote room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together 
for  a  long  time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had 
at  first  objected  to  the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in 
deference  to  his  mistress's  wish,  had  only  permitted  it 
under  growling  protest.  But,  emerging  by  little  and 
little  from  the  ante-room,  whither  ne  had .  retired  in 
dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to  comprehend  that  with 
the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  on*  of  thoae 
mistakes  which  will  occasionally  arise  raWeVicATfe^ea.- 


74  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lated  dogs'  minds;  as  a  friendly  apology  for  which  he 
stuck  himself  up  on  end  between  the  two,  in  a  very  hot 
place  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  eat  panting  at  it,  witli  his 
tongue  out,  and  a  most  imbecile  expression  of  counte- 
nance, listening  to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence's  books  and  favorite 
pursuits,  and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled 
the  interval  since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened 
up  to  her  a  subject  which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and 
she  said,  with  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes: 

"Oh,  mama!  I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  since  that 
day." 

"You  a  great  sorrow,  Florence!" 

"Yes.     Poor  Walter  is  drowned." 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  face^  and  wept 
with  all  her  heart.  Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which 
Walter's  fate  had  cost  ner,  they  flowed  yet,  when  she 
thought  or  spoke  of  him. 

"  But  tell  me,  dear,"  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  "  Who 
was  Walter?    What  was  he  to  you? " 

"  He  was  my  brother,  mama.  After  dear  Paul  died, 
we  said  wo  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I  had  known 
him  a  long  time — from  a  little  child.  He  knew  Paul, 
who  liked  him  verv  much;  Paul  said,  almost  at  the  last, 
'  Take  care  of  Walter,  dear  papa!  I  was  fond  of  himi  * 
Walter  had  been  brought  in  to  see  him,  and  was  there 
then — in  this  room." 

"And  did  he  take  care  of  Walter?"  inquired  Edith, 
sternly. ^  ^ 

"Papa?  He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.  He  was 
drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,"  said  Florence, 
sobbing, 

"Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead?"  asked  Edith. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  mama.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  mama!"  cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for 
help,  and  hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  "  I  know 
that  you  have  seen—" 

"Stayl  Stop,  Florence,"  Edith  turned  bo  pale,  and 
spoke  so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  re- 
straining hand  upon  her  lios.  "  Tell  me  all  about  Win- 
ter first;  let  me  understana  this  history  all  through." 

Florence  related  it,  and  everrthing  belonging  to  it, 
even  down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  she 
could  hardly  speak  in  her  distress  without  a  tearful 
,  .       C;ooo[c 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  75 

smile,  although  she  was  deeply  grateful  to  him.  When 
she  had  concluded  her  account,  to  the  whole  of  which 
EMith,  holding  her  hand,  listened  with  close  attention, 
and  when  a  silence  had  succeeded,  Edith  said: 

"What  is  it  that  you  know  I  have  seen,  Florence?" 

*'  That  I  am  not,"  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute 
'  appeal,  and  the  same  quick  concealment  of  her  face  as 
before,  *'that  I  am  not  a  favorite  child,  mama,  I  never 
have  been.  I  have  never  known  how  to  be.  I  have 
missed  the  way,  and  had  no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh, 
let  me  learn  from  you  how  to  become  dearer  to  papa. 
Teach  me!  you,  who  can  so  well!"  and  clinging  closer 
to  her,  with  some  broken  fervent  words  of  gratitude 
and  endearment.  Florence,  relieved  of  her  sad  secret, 
wept  long,  but  not  as  painfully  as  of  yore,  within  the 
encircling  arms  of  her  new  mother. 

Pale,  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a  face  that  strove  for 
compoBure  until  its  proud  beauty  was  as  fixed  as  death, 
EMith  looked  down  upon  the  weeping  girl,  and  once 
kissed  her.  Then  gra!dually  disengaging  herself,  and 
putting  Florence  away,  she  said,  statelv  and  quiet  as  a 
marble  image,  and  in  a  voice  that  deepened  as  she 
spoke,  but  had  no  other  token  of  emotion  m  it: 

"  Florence,  you  do  not  know  me!  Heaven  forbid  that 
you  should  learn  from  me! " 

"Not  learn  from  you?"  repeated  Florence,  in  surprise, 

"That  I  should  teach  you  how  to  love,  or  be  loved. 
Heaven  forbid!"  said*  Edith.  "If  you  could  teach  me, 
that  were  better;  but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to  me, 
Florence.  I  did  not  think  that  anything  could  ever  he 
80  dear  to  me  as  you  are  in  this  little  time." 

She  saw  4hat  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  so 
checked  her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

"I  will  be  your  true  friend  always,  I  will  cherish 
you  as  muoh  if  not  as  well  as  any  one  in  this  world 
could.  You  may  trust  in  me — I  know  it  and  I  say  it, 
dear, — with  the  whole  confidence  even  of  your  pure 
heart.  There  are  hosts  of  women  whom  he  might  nave 
married,  better  and  truer  in  all  other  respects  than  I 
am,  Florence;  but  there  is  not  one  who  could  come  here, 
his  wife,  whose  heart  could  beat  with  greater  truth  to 
you  than  mine  does." 

"I  know  it,  dear  mama!"  cried  Florence.  "From 
that  first  most  happy  day  I  have  known  \\." 


76  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Most  happy  day!"  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the  words 
involuntarily,  and  went  on.  *' Though  the  merit  is  not 
mine,  for  I  thought  little  of  you  until  I  saw  you,  let  the 
undeserved  reward  be  mine  m  your  trust  and  love.  And 
in  this — in  this,  Florence;  on  the  first  night  of  my  taking 
up  my  abode  liere;  I  am  led  on  as  it  is  best  I  should  be, 
to  say  it  for  the  first  and  last  time." 

Florence,  witliout  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to 
hear  her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  rivetted  on  the 
beautiful  face  so  fixed  upon  her  own, 

"Never  seek  to  find  m  me,"  said  Edith,  laying  her 
hand  upon  her  breast,  "  what  is  not  here.  Never  if  you 
can  hem  it,  Florence,  fall  off  from  me  because  it  is  not 
here.  Little  by  little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the 
time  will  come  when  you  will  know  me,  as  I  know  my- 
self. Then,  be  as  lenient  to  me  as  you  can,  and  do  not 
turn  to  bitterness  the  only  sweet  remembrance  I  shall 
have." 

The  tears  tliat  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept 
them  fixed  on  Florence  showed  that  the  composed  face 
was  but  as  a  handsome  mask;  but  she  preserved  it,  and 
continued: 

"  I  hnt^e  seen  what  you  say,  and  know  how  true  it  is. 
But  believe  me — you  will  soon,  if  you  cannot  now — 
there  is  no  one  on  this  earth  less  qualified  to  set  it  right 
or  help  you,  Florence,  than  I.  Never  ask  me  why,  or 
speak  to  me  about  it,  or  of  my  husband,  more.  There 
should  be,  so  far,  a  division,  and  «  silence  between  us 
two,  like  the  grave  itself." 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent ;  Florence  scarcely  ventur- 
ing to  breathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect  shadows 
of  the  truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences,  ehased  each 
other  through  her  terrified,  yet  incredulous  imagination. 
Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  Edith's  face 
began  to  subside  from  its  set  composure  to  that  quieter 
and  more  relenting  aspect  which  it  usually  wore  when 
she  and  Florence  were  alone  together.  She  shaded  it, 
after  this  change,  with  her  hands;  and  when  she  arose, 
and  with  an  affectionate  embrace  bade  Florence  good 
night,  went  quickly,  and  without  looking  round. 

But,  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  was 
dark  except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned, 
and  saying  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dress- 
ing-room was  lonely,  drew  a  chair  upon  the  hearth,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  77 

watched  the  emhers  as  they  died  away.  Florence 
watched  them  too  from  her  bed,  until  tney,  and  the 
noble  fi^;iire  before  them,  crowned  with  its  flowing  hair, 
and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting  back  their  light, 
became  confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally  were  lost  in 
slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  however,  Florence  could  not  lose  an  un- 
defined impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed.  It 
formed  the  subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her; 
now  in  one  shape,  now  in  another;  but  always  oppres- 
sively; and  with  a  sense  of  fear.  She  dreamed  of  seek- 
ing her  father  in  wildemesseB,  of  following  his  track 
up  fearful  heights,  and  down  into  deep  mines  and 
caverns:  of  being  charged  with  something  that  woald 
release  him  from  extraordinary  suffering — she  knew 
not  what,  or  why — yet  never  being  able  to  attain  the 
goal  and  set  him  free.  Then  she  saw  him  dead,  upon 
that  very  bed,  and  in  that  very  room,  and  knew  that  he 
had  never  loved  her  to  the  last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold 
breast,  passionately  weeping.  'Chen  a  prospect  opened, 
and  a  river  flowed,  and  a  plaintive  voice  she  Knew, 
cried,  ''It  is  running  on,  Floy!  It  has  never  stopped! 
You  are  moving  with  it!"  And  she  saw  him  at  a  dis- 
tance stretching  out  <hiB  arms  towards  her,  while  a 
figure  such  as  W'alter's  used  to  be,  stood  near  him, 
awfully  serene  and  still,  In  every  vision,  Edith  came 
and  went,  sometimes  to  her  joy,  sometimes  to  her  sor- 
row, until  they  were  alone  upon  the  brink  of  a  dark 
grave,  and  Edith  pointing  down,  she  looked  and  saw — 
what! — another  Edith  lying  at  the  bottom. 

In  the  terror  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out,  and  awoke 
she  thought.  A  soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her 
ear,  "Florence,  dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a 
dream!"  and  stretching  out  her  arms,  she  returned 
the  caress  of  her  new  mama,  wjjo  then  went  out  at 
the  door  in  the  light  of  the  grey  morning.  In  a  mo- 
ment, Florence  sat  up  wondering  whether  this  had 
really  taken  place  or  not;  but  she  was  only  certain  that 
it  was  grey  morning  indeed,  and  that  the  blackened 
ashes  of  the  fire  were  on  the  hearth,  and  that  she  was 
alone. 

80  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  came 
home. 


78  DOMBEY  AUD  SON. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

HOUSEWARMINU. 

Many  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  msinner;  except 
that  there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid,  and 
that  Mrs.  Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own  apart- 
ments at  which  Major  Bagstock  was  a  frequent  attend- 
ant, and  that  Florence  encountered  no  second  look  from 
her  father,  although  she  saw  him  every  day.  Nor  had 
she  much  communication,  in  words,  with  her  new 
mama,  who  was  imperious  and  proud  to  all  the  house 
but  her— Florence  could  not  but  observe  that — and  who, 
although  she  always  sent  for  her  or  went  to  her  when 
she  came  home  from  visiting,  and  would  always  go  into 
her  room  at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late 
the  hour,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with 
her,  was  often  her  sileijt  and  thoughtful  companion  for 
a  long  time  together. 

Florence,  who  bad  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  mar- 
riage, could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright 
house  with  the  faded  dreary  pla«e  out  of  which  it  had 
arisen,  and  wondering  when,  iu  any  shape,  it  would 
begin  to  be  a  home;  for  that  it  was  no  home  then,  for 
any  one,  though  everything  went  on  luxuriously  and 
regularly,  she  nad  always  a  secret  misgiving.  Many 
an  hour  of  sorrowful  reflection  by  day  and  night,  and 
many  a  tear  of  blighted  hope,  Florence  bestowed  upon 
the  assurance  her  new  mama  had  given  her  so  strongly 
that  there  was  no  one  on  the  earth  more  powerless  than 
herself  to  teach  her  how  to  win  her  father's  heart. 
And  soon  Florence  began  to  think — resolved  to  think 
would  be  the  truer  pljrase— that  as  no  one  knew  so  well 
bow  hopeless  of  bemg  subdued  or  changed  her  father's 
coldness  to  her  was,  so  she  had  given  her  this  warning, 
and  forbidden  the  subject  in  very  compassion.  Unselfish 
here,  as  in  her  every  act  and  fancy,  Florence  preferred 
to  bear  the  pain  of  this  new  wound  rather  than  en- 
courage any  faint  foreshadowings  of  the  truth  as  it 
concerned  her  father;  tender  of  him,  even  in  her  wan- 
dering thoughts.  As  for  his  home  she  hoped  it  would 
become  a  better  one,  when  its  state  of  novelty  and  trau- 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7Q 

Bition  should  be  over:  and  for  herself,  thought  little, 
and  lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new.  family  were  particularly  at  home 
in  private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs,  Dombey  at  least 
should  be  at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A  series  of 
entertainments  in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and 
in  cultivation  of  society,  were  arranged  chiefly  by  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mrs.  Skewton;  and  it  was  settled  that  the 
festive  proceedings  should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey's 
being  at  home  upon  a  certain  evening,  and  by  Mr,  and 
Mrs.  Dombey's  requesting  the  honor  of  the  company  of 
a  great  many  incongruous  people  to  dinner  on  the  same 
day. 

Accordingly  Mr.  Dombey  produced  a  list  of  sundry 
eastern  magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast 
on  his  behalf,  to  which  Mrs,  Skewton,  acting  for  her 
dearest  child,  who  was  haughtily  careless  on  the  sub- 
ject, subjoined  a  western  list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix, 
not  yet  returned  to  Baden  Baden,  greatly  to  the  detri- 
ment of  his  personal  estate;  and  a  variety  of  moths  of 
various  degrees  and  ages,  who  had,  at  various  times, 
fluttered  round  the  light  of  her  fair  danghter,  or  her- 
self, without  any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings.  Flor- 
ence was  enrolled  as  a  member  of  the  dinner-party,  by 
Edith's  command — elicited  by  a  moment's  doubt  and 
hesitation  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  SkewtoH;  and  Florence, 
with  a  wondering  heart,  and  with  a  quiok  instinctive 
sense  of  everything  that  grated  on  her  father  in  the 
least,  took  her  silent  share  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dombey,  in  a 
cravat  of  extraordinary  height  and  stiffness,  walking 
restlessly  about  the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  ap- 

Eointed  for  dimier;  punctual  to  which,  an  East  India 
director,  of  immense  wealth,  in  a  waistcoat  apparently 
constructed  in  serviceable  deal  by  some  plain  carpenter, 
but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor's  art,  and  composed 
of  the  material  called  nankeen,  arrived,  and  was  re- 
ceived by  Mr,  Dombey  alone.  The  next  stage  of  the 
proceedings  was  Mr.  Dombey  sending  his  compliments 
to  Mrs.  Dombev,  with  a  correct  statement  of  the  timej 
and  the  next,  tne  East  India  Director's  falling  prostrate, 
in  a  conversational  point  of  view  and,  as  Mr.  Dombey 
was  not  the  man  to  pick  him  up,  staring  atth«>^T«i'^'c£<A 


f!0  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

rescue  appeared  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton;  whom 
the  Director,  as  a  pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening, 
mistook  for  Mrs,  Dombey,  and  greeted  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  Bank  Director,  reputed  to  be 
able  to  buy  up  anything— human  Nature  generally,  if 
he  should  take  it  in  hia  head  to  influence  the  money 
market  in  that  direction — but  who  was  a  wonderfully 
modest-spoken  man,  almost  boastfully  so,  and  men- 
tioned his  "  little  place  "  at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  and 
its  iust  being  bar^y  equal  to  giving  Dombe;p"  a  bed  and 
a  cnop,  if  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said, 
it  was  not  for  a  man  who  lived  in  his  quiet  way  to  take 
upon  himself  to  invite — but  if  Mrs,  Skewton  and  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Dorabey,  should  ever  find  themselves  in 
that  direction,  and  would  do  him  the  honor  to  look  at  a 
little  bit  of  a  shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a 
poor  little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a  humble  apology  for  a 
pinery,  and  two  or  three  little  attempts  of  that  sort 
without  any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him 
very  much.  Cfarryingout  his  character,  this  gentleman 
was  very  plainly  dl^ssed,  in  a  wisp  of  cambric  for  a 
neckcloth,  big  shoes,  a  coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him, 
and  a  pair  of  trousers  that  were  too  spare;  And  mention 
being  made  of  the  Opera  by  Mrs.  Skewton,  he  said  he 
very  seldom  went  there,  for  he  couldn't  afford  it.  It 
seemed  greatly  to  delight  and  exhilarate  him  to  say  so; 
and  he  beamed  on  his  audience  afterwards,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  excessive  satisfaction  twink- 
ling in  his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud,  and 
as  disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal 
wreath  upon  her  head  had  been  a  garland  of  steel  spikes 
put  on  to  force  concession  from  her  which  she  would  die 
sooner  than  yield.  With  her  was  Florence,  When 
they  entered  together,  the  shadow  of  the  night  of  the 
return  again  darkened  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  But  imob- 
served:  for  Florence  did  not  venture  to  raise  her  eyes  to 
his,  and  Edith's  indifference  was  too  supreme  to  take 
the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  direct- 
ors, chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  car- 
rying  burdens  on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin 
leenix.  Major  Bagstock,  friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  81 

the  same  bright  bloom  on  their  complezion,  and  very 
precious  necklaces  on  very  withered  necks.  Among 
these,  a  young  lady  of  Bixty-five,  remarkably  cooUv 
dressed  as  to  her  back  and  snoulders,  who  spoke  witD 
an  engaging  lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn  t  keep  up 
well  without  a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and 
whose  manners  nad  that  indefinable  charm  which  so  fre- 
quently attaches  to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the 
greater  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be 
taciturn,  and  the  greater  part  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  list 
were  disposed  to  be  talkative,  and  there  was  no  sympa- 
thy between  them,  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  by  magnetic 
agreement,  entered  into  a  bond  of  union  against  Mr. 
Dombey'*  list,  who,  wandering  about  the  rooms  in  a 
desolate  manner,  or  seeking  refuge  in  comers,  entangled 
themselves  with  company  coming  in,  and  became  bar- 
ricaded behind  sofas,  and  had  doors  opened  smartly 
from  without  against  their  heads,  and  underwent  every 
sort  of  discomfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr,  Dombev  took  down 
an  old  lady  like  a  crimson  velvet  pincusnion  stuffed 
with  bank  notes,  who  might  have  been  the  identical  old 
lady  of  Thread-needle-street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked 
so  imaccommodating;  Cousin  Feeuix  took  down  Mrs. 
Dombey;  Major  Bagstock  took  down  Mrs,  Skewton;  the 
young  thing  with  the  shoulders  was  bestowed,  as  an  ex- 
tinguisher, upon  the  East  India  Director;  and  the  re- 
maming  ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  drawing-room 
by  the  remaining  gentlemen  until  a  forlorn  hope  vol- 
unteered to  conduct  them  down-stairs,  and  those  brave 
spirits  with  their  captives  blocked  up  the  dining-room 
door,  shutting  out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted 
hall.  When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated, 
one  of  these  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling  confu- 
sion, totally  destitute  and  unprovided  for,  and,  escorted 
by  the  butler,  made  the  complete  circuit  of  the  table 
twice  before  his  chair  could  be  found,  which  it  finally 
was,  on  Mrs.  Dombey's  left  hand;  after  which  the  mild 
man  never  held  up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the  company 
seated  round  tne  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glit- 
tering spoons,  ana  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might 
haveoeen  taken  for  a  grown-up  exposition  of  Tom  Tid- 
dler's ground,  where  childrt'n  pick  up  gold,  waA.  «Ovse^. 


8a  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Dombey,  as  Tiddler,  looked  his  character  to  admira- 
tiou;  and  the  long  plateau  of  precious  metal  frosted, 
separatiuK  him  from  Mrs.  Dombey,  whereon  froeted 
Cupids  offered  scentless  flowers  to  each  of  them,  was 
allegorical  to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  aston- 
ishingly young.  But  he  was  sometimes  thoughtless  in 
his  good  humor— his  memory  occasionally  wandering 
like  his  legs — and  on  this  occasion  he  caused  the  com- 
pany to  sliudder.  It  happened  thus.  The  young  lady 
with  the  back,  who  regarded  Cousin  Feenix  with  senti- 
ments of  tenderness,  had  entrapped  the  East  India  Di- 
rector into  leading  her  to  the  chair  next  him:  in  return 
for  which  good  omco  she  immediately  abaq^oned  the 
Director  who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a 
gloomy  black  velvet  hat  surmounting  a  bony  and 
speechless  female  with  a  fan,  yielded  to  a  depression  of 
spirits  and  withdrew  into  himself.  Cousin  Feenix  and 
the  young  lady  were  very  lively  and  humorous,  and  the 
young  lady  laughed  so  much  at  something  Cousin  Fee- 
nix related  to  her  that  Major  Bagstock  begged  leave  to 
inquire  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Skewton  (they  were  sitting 
opposite,  a  little  lower  down)  whether  that  might  not 
be  considered  public  property. 

"Why,  upon  my  life,  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "there's 
nothing  in  it;  it  really  is  not  worth  repeating:  in  point 
of  fact,  it's  merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  I  dare 
say  my  friend  Dombey; "  for  the  general  attention  was 
concentrated  on  Cousin  Feenix;  "may  remember  Jack 
Adams,  Jack  Adams,  not  Joe;  that  was  his  brother. 
Jack — little  Jack — man  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a  slight 
impediment  in  his  speech — man  who  sat  for  somebody's 
borough.  We  used  to  call  him  in  my  parliamentary 
time  W.  P.  Adams,  in  consequence  of  his  being  Warm- 
ing Pan  for  a  young  fellow  who  was  in  his  minority. 
Perhapa  my  friend  Dombey  may  have  known  the  man?" 

Mr.  Donibey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy 
Fawkes,  replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven 
mild  men  unexpectedly  leaped  into  distinction,  by  say- 
ing he  had  known  him,  and  adding — "always  wore 
Hessian  bootsi" 

"Exactly,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to 
see  the  mild  man,  and  smile  encouragement  at  him 
down  the  table.     "  That  was  Jack.    Joe  wore — " 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  83 

"  Tops!  "  cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  estima- 
tion every  instant. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  you  were  intimate 
with  em?  " 

■"  I  knew  them  both,"  said  the  mild  man.  With  whom 
Mr.  Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

"Devilish  good  fellow,  Jack?"  eaid  Cousin  Feenix, 
again  bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

"  Excellent,"  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold 
on  his  success.     "  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew. " 

"No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  story?"  said  Cousin 
Feenix, 

"  I  shall  know,"  replied  the  bold  mild  man,  "When  1 
have  heard  your  Ludship  tell  it."  With  that,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing 
it  by  heart,  and  being  already  tickled. 

"  In  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself," 
said  Cousin  Feenix.  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile, 
and  a  gay  shake  of  his  head,  "  and  not  worth  a  word  of 
preface.  But  it's  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack's 
humor.  The  fact  is,  that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a 
marriage — which  I  think  took  place  in  Barkshire? " 

"  Shropshire,"  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  him- 


"  Was  "it?  well!  In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been 
in  any  shire,"  said  Cousin  Feenii.  "So,  my  friend 
being  invited  down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,"  with 
a  pleasant  sense  of  the  readiness  of  this  joke,  "goes. 
Just  as  some  of  us  having  had  the  honor  of  being  in- 
vited to  the  marriage  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  with  my  friend  Dombev  didn't  require  to  be 
asked  twice,  and[  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present  on  so 
interesting  an  occasion. —Goes--Jack  goes.  Now,  this 
marriage  was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  un- 
commonly fine  girl  with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn't 
care  a  button,  but  whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his 
property,  which  was  immense.  When  Jack  returned 
to  town,  after  the  nuptials,  a  man  he  knew,  meeting 
him  in  tbe  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  says, 
'Well,  Jack,  how  are  the  ill-matched  couple?'  'Ill- 
matched,'  says  Jack.  '  Not  at  all.  It's  a  perfectly  fair 
and  equal  transaction.  She  is  regularly  bought,  and 
you  may  take  your  oath  he  is  as  regularly  sold! '  " 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  poiwt  «A  V«. 


U  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

story  the  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table 
like  an  electric  spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he 
stopped.  Not  a  smile  occasioned  by  the  only  general 
topic  of  conversation  broached  that  day  appeared  on 
any  face.  A  profound  silence  en8ued;and  the  wretched 
mild  man,  who  had  been  as 'innocent  of  any  real  fore- 
knowledge of  the  story  as  the  child  unborn,  nad  the  ex- 
quisite misery  of  reading  in  every  eye  that  he  was  re- 
garded as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief, 

Mr.  Dombey  s  face  was  not  a  changeful  one,  and  being 
cast  in  its  mould  of  state  that  day,  showed  little  other 
apprehension  of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which  he 
expressed  when  be  said  solemnly,  amidst  the  silence, 
that  it  was  "Very  good."  There  was  a  rapid  glance 
from  Edith  towards  Florence,  but  otherwise  she  re- 
mained, externally,  impassive  and  unconscious. 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines, 
continual  gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and 
water,  heaped-up  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  banquets — ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its 
way;  the  later  stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous 
music  of  incessant  double  Knocks,  announcing  the  ar- 
rival of  visitors,  whose  portion  of  the  feast  was  limited  to 
the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs.  Dombey  rose,  it  was  a 
sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff  throat,  and  erect  head, 
hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies;  and 
to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter  on  her 
arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a  grave  si^t,  behind  the  decanters, 
in  a  state  of  dignity;  and  the  East  India  Director  was  a 
forlorn  sight  near  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table,  in  a 
state  of  solitude;  and  the  major  was  a  military  sight, 
relating  stories  of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven 
mild  men  (the  ambitious  one  was  utterly  quenched); 
and  the  Bank  Director  was  a  lowly  sight,  making  a 
plan  of  his  little  attempt  at  a  pinery  with  dessert-knives, 
tor  a  group  of  admirers;  and  Cfousin  Feenix  was  a 
thoughtful  sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands 
and  stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights 
were  of  short  duration,  being  speedily  broken  up  by 
coffee,  and  the  desertion  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  throng  in  the  state-rooms  up-stairs,  in- 
creasing every  minute;  but  still  Mr.  Dombey's  list  of 
visitors  appeared  to  have  some  native  impossibility  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  .      85 

amalgamation  with  Mrs,  Dombey'B  list,  and  no  one  could 
have  doubted  which  was  which.  The  single  exception 
to  this  rule  perhaps  was  Mr,  Carker,  who  now  smiled 
among  the  company,  and  who,  as  he  stood  in  the  circle 
that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombev— watchful  of 
her,  of  them,'  his  chief,  Cleopatra  and  the  major,  Flor- 
ence, and  everything  around — appeared  at  ease  with 
both  divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively 
belonging  to  either. 

Florence  had  a  dread  of  him  which  made  his  presence 
in  the  room  a  nightmare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid 
the  recollection  of  it,  for  her  eyes  ware  drawn  towards 
him  every  now  and  then  by  an  attraction  of  dislikeand 
distrust  that  she  could  not  resist.  Yet  her  thoughts 
were  busy  with  other  things;  for  as  she  sat  apart — not 
unadmired  or  unsought,  but  in  the  gentleness  of  her  quiet 
spirit — she  felt  how  little  part  her  father  had  in  what 
was  going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain,  how  ill  at  ease  he 
seemed  to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he  was  as  he  lin- 
gered about  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors  whom  he 
wished  to  distinguish  with  particular  attention,  and 
took  them  up  to  introduce  them  to  his  wife,  who  received 
them  with  proud  coldness,  but  showed  no  interest  or 
wish  to  please,  and  never,  after  the  bare  ceremony  of 
reception,  in  consultation  of  his  wishes,  or  in  welcome 
of  his  friends,  opened  her  lips.     It  was  not  the  less  per- 

flexing  or  painful  to  Florence  that  she  who  acted  tnus 
reated  her  so  kindly,  and  with  such  loving  considera- 
tion, that  it  almost  seemed  an  ungrateful  return  on  her 
"lart  even  to  know  of  what  was  passing  before  her  eyes, 
Happy  Florence'  would  have  been,  might  she  have 
ventured  to  bear  her  father  company,  by  so  much  as  a 
look;  and  happy  Florence  was.  in  little  suspecting  the 
main  cause  of  nis  uneasiness.  But  afraid  of  seeming  to 
know  that  he  was  placed  at  any  disadvantage,  lest  he 
should  be  resentful  of  that  knowledge;  and  divided  be- 
tween her  impulse  towards  him,  and  her  grateful  affec- 
tion for  Editn;  she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes 
towards  either.  Anxious  and  unhappy  for  them  both, 
the  thought  stole  on  her  through  the  crowd  that  it  might 
have  been  better  for  them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and 
tread  of  feet  had  never  come  there,^f  the  old  dullness 
and  decay  had  never  been  replaced  by  novelty  and 
splendor, — if  the  neglected  child  had  found  no  friend  to. 


86      ,  DOMBEY  AND  SUN. 

Edith,  but  had  lived  her  solitary  life,  unpitied^and  for- 
gotten. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  Bome  such  thoughts  too,  but  they  were 
not  so  quietly  developed  in  her  mind.  This  good  matron 
had  been  outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiving 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  That  blow  partiaHy  recovered, 
she  had  gone  to  a  vast  expense  to  make  such  a  figure 
before  Mrs.  Dombey  at  home  as  should  dazzle  the 
senses  of  that  lady,  and  heap  mortification,  mountains 
high,  on  the  head  of  Mrs.  Skewton. 

"  But  I  am  made,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  to  Mr.  Chick,  "  of 
no  more  account  than  Florence!  Who  takes  the  small- 
est notice  of  me?    No  one!" 

"No  one.  my  dear."  assented  Mr.  Chick,  who  was 
seated  by  the  side  of  Mrs,  Chick  against  the  wall,  and 
could  console  himself,  even  there,  by  softly  whistling. 

"  Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I  was  wanted  here?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Chick,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Chick. 

"Paul's  mad!"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

"  Unless  you  are  a  monster,  which  I  sometimes  think 
you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  candor,  "  don't  sit  there 
humming  tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant 
feelings  of  a  man.  can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's, 
dressed  as  she  is,  going  on  like  that  with  Major  Bag- 
stock,  for  whom,  among  other  precious  things,  we  are 
indebted  to  your  Lucretia  Tox —  " 

"My  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear!"  said  Mr.  Chick  as- 
tounded. 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severity,  "  your 
Lucretia  Tox — I  say  how  anybody  can  see  that  mother- 
in-law  of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and 
those  indecent  old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders, 
and  in  short  this  at  home  generally,  and  can  hum — ,"  on 
which  word  Mrs.  Chick  laid  a  scornful  emphasis  that 
made  Mr.  Chick  start,  "  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  mystery 
to  me! " 

Mr,  Chick  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  form  irreconcil- 
able with  humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  con- 
templative. 

"  But  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick, ■Bwelhng  with  indignation,  "  though  Paul  has  for- 
gotten what  is  due  to  me.     I  am  not  going  to  sit  here,  a 

„,.     Coofjic 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  87 

member  of  this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I  am  not 
the  dirt  under  Mrs.  Dombey's  feet  yet — not  quite  yet," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  she  expected  to  become  so  about  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  "And  I  shall  ^o.  I  will  not  say 
{whatever  I  may  think)  that  this  affair  has  been  got  up 
sorely  to  degraae  and  msult  me.  I  shall  merely  go.  I 
shall  not  be  missed!  " 

Mrs.  Chick  rose  erect  with  these  words,  and  took  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room  after 
half  an  hour's  shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to  her 
penetration  to  observe  that  she  certainly  was  not  missed 
at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest;  for  Mr. 
Dombey's  list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a 
body,  indignant  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  for  looking  at 
them  through  eye-glasses,  and  audibly  wondering  who 
all  those  people  were;  while  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  com- 
plained of  weariness,  and  the  young  thing  with  the 
shoulders,  deprived  of  the  attentions  of  that  gay  youth 
Cousin  Feenix  (who  went  away  from  the  dinner-table), 
confide ntiajiy  alleged  to  thirty  or  forty  friends  that  she 
was  bored  to  death.  All  the  old  ladies  with  the  burdens 
on  their  heads  had  greater  or  less  cause  of,  complaint 
against  Mrs.  Dombey;  and  the  directors  and  chairmen 
coincided  in  thinking  that  if  Dombey  must  marry  he 
bad  better  have  married  somebody  nearer  his  own  age, 
not  quite  so  handsome,  and  a  little  better  off.  The  gen- 
eral opinion  among  this  class  of  gentlemen  was,  that  it 
was  a  weak  thing  in  Dombey,  and  he'd  live  to  repent  it. 
Hardly  anybody  there,  except  the  mild  men,  stayed,  or 
went  away,  without  considering  himself  or  berself  neg- 
lected and  aggrieved  by  Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dombey; 
and  the  speechless  female  in  the  black  velvet  hat  was 
found  to  have  been  stricken  mute  because  the  lady  in 
the  crimson  velvet  had  been  banded  down  before  ner. 
The  nature  even  of  the  mild  men  got  corrupted,  either 
from  their  curdling  it  with  too  much  lemonade,  or  from 
the  general  inoculation  that  prevailed;  and  they  made 
sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another,  and  whispered  disparage- 
ment on  stairs  and  in  by-places.  The  general  dissatis- 
faction and  discomfort  so  diffused  itself,  that  the  assem- 
bled footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well  acquainted  with  it 
as  the  company  above.  Nay,  the  very  hnkmen  outside' 
got  hold  of  it,  and  compared  the  paTt7  Vi  a,lM»ft\?^«*A'=S- 


Pft  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

monmiQg,  with  none  of  the  company  remembered  in  the 
will. 

At  last,  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen  too; 
and  the  street,  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was  clear; 
and  the  dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  flie  rooms  but 
Mr.  Dombey  and  Mr  Carker,  who  were  talking  together 
apart,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  and  her  mother:  the  former 
seated  on  an  ottoman ;  the  latter  rechning  in  the  Cleopa- 
tra attitude,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  her  maid.  Mr. 
Dombey  having  6nished  his  communication  to  Carker, 
the  latter  advanced  obsequiously  to  take  leave, 

"  I  trust,"  he  said,  "  that  the  fatigues  of  this  delight- 
ful evening  will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to- 
morrow." 

" Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  "has 
sufficiently  spared  herself  fatigue  "to  relieve  you  from 
any  anxiety  of  that  kind.  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I  could  have  wished  you  had  fatigued  yourself  a 
little  more  on  this  occasion." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  supercilious  glance,  that  it 
seemed  not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned 
away  her  eyes  without  speaking. 

"  I  am  sorry,  madam,  '  said  Mr.  Dombey,  *'  that  you 
should  not  have  thought  it  your  duty — " 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Your  duty,  madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey, "  to  have 
received  my  friends  with  a  little  more  deference.  Some 
of  those  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night 
in  a  very  marked  manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a  dis- 
tinction upon  you,  I  must  tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay 
you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here?  "  she  re- 
turned, now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"No!  Carker!  rbegthat  you  ao  not.  I  insist  that 
you  do  not,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  that  noiseless 
gentleman  in  his  withdrawal.  "Mr.  Carker,  madam, 
as  you  know,  possesses  my  confidence.  He  is  as  well 
acquainted  as  myself  with  the  subject  on  which  I  speak. 
I  beg  to  tell  you.  for  your  information,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I  consider  these  wealthy  and  important  persons 
confer  a  distinction  upon  me:  and  Mr.  Dombey  drew 
himself  up  as  having  now  rendered  them  of  the  nighest 
possible  importance. 

"I  ask  you,"  she  repeated,  bending  her  disdainful. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  8!) 

steady  gaze  upon  him,  "  do  you  know  that  there  is  some 
one  here,  sir? 

"  I  must  entreat,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward, 
"I  must  beg,  I  must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight 
and  unimportant  as  this  difference  is — " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  upon  her  daugh- 
ter's face,  took  him  up  here. 

"My  sweetest  Edith,"  she  said,  "and  my  dearest 
Domliey;  our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I  am 
sure  I  oug^ht  to  mention  him — " 

Mr.  Carker  murmured,  "Too  much  honor." 

" — heis  used  the  very  words  that  were  in  my  mind, 
and  that  I  have  been  dying  these  ages,  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  introducing.  Shght  and  unimportant!  My 
sweetest  Edith,  and  my  dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not 
know  that  any  difference  between  you  two —  No, 
Flowers;  not  now." 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  pres- 
ent, retreated  with  precipitation. 

"That  any  difference  betw^een  you  two,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Skewton,  "  with  the  heart  you  possess  in  common, 
and  the  excessively  charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there 
is  between  you,  must  be  slight  and  unimportant?  What 
words  could  better  define  the  fact?  None.  Therefore 
I  am  glad  to  take  this  shght  occasion— this  trifling 
occasion,  that  is  so  replete  with  Nature,  and  your  indi- 
vidual characters,  and  all  that — so  truly  calculated  to 
bring  the  tears  into  a  parent's  eyes — to  say  that  I  attach 
no  importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except  as  developing 
these  minor  elements  of  Soul;  and  that,  unlike  most 
mamas-in-law  (that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dombey!)  as 
they  have  been  represented  to  me  to  exist  in  this  1  fear 
too  artificial  world,  I  never  shall  attempt  to  interpose 
between  you  at  such  a  time,  and  never  can  much  regret, 
after  all,  such  little  flashes  of  the  torch  of  What's-his- 
name — not  Cupid,  but  the  other  dehghtful  creature.'' 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  good  mother's  glance  at 
both  her  children  as  she  spoke  that  may  have  been  ex- 

Eressive  of  a  direct  and  well-considered  purpose  hidden 
etween  these  rambling  words.  That  purpose,  provi- 
dently to  detach  herself  in  the  beginning  from  all  the 
clankings  of  their  chain  that  were  to  come,  and  to 
shelter  herself  with  the  fiction  of  her  innocent  belief  in 
their  mutual  affection,and  their  adaptation  to  fta.t\v<i<^'CT , 


90  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"I  have  pointed  out  to  Mrs,  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  in  his  most  stately  manner,  "that  in  her  conduct 
thus  early  in  our  married  life,  to  which  I  object,  and 
which,  I  recguest,  may  be  corrected.  Carter,  with  a 
nod  of  dismissal,  "good  night  to  you!" 

Mr.  Carker  boweato  the  imperious  form  of  the  bride. 
whose  sparkling  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  husband;  and 
stopping  at  Cleopatra's  couch  on  nis  way  out,  raised  to 
his  lips  the  hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him  in 
lowly  and  admiring  homage. 

If  hia  handsome  wife  had  reproached  him,  or  even 
changed  countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which 
she  remained,  by  one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone 
(for  Cleopatra  made  off  with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dombey 
would  have  been  equal  to  some  assertion  of  his  case 
against  her.  But  the  intense,  unutterable,  withering 
scorn  with  which,  after  looking  upon  him,  she  dropped 
her  eyes  as  if  he  were  too  wortnless  and  indifferent  to 
her  to  be  challenged  with  a  syllable— the  ineffable  dis- 
dain and  haughtiness  in  which  she  sat  before  him — the 
cold  inflexible  resolve  with  which  her  every  feature 
seemed  to  bear  him  down,  and  put  hin^  by— he  had  no 
resource  against;  and  he  left  her.  witn  her  whole  over- 
bearing beauty  concentrated  on  t!esp  sing  him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  after- 
wards, on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  lie  had  once  seen 
Florence  in  the  moonlight  toiling  up  with  Paul?  Or 
WAS  he  in  the  dark  by  accident,  when,  looking  up,  he 
saw  her  coming,  with  a  light,  from  the  room  where  Flor- 
ence lay,  and  marked  again  the  face  so  changed,  which 
he  could  not  subdue? 

But  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never,  in 
its  utmost  pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  hswi 
fallen  on  his.  in  the  dark  comer,  on  the  night  of  the 
return  and  often  since;  and  which  deepened  on  it  now 
as  he  looked  up. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  91 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MORB  WARNINGS   THAN  ONE. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  together 
next  day,  and  the  carriage  was  Waiting  at  the  door  to 
take  them  out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again 
now,  and  Withers,  no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in 
a  pigeon -hreae ted  jacket  and  mihtary  trouBers,  behind 
her  wheel-leBB  chair  at  dinner  time,  and  butted  no  more. 
Th^hair  of  Withers  was  radiant  with  pomatum,  in  these 
days  of  down,  and  he  wore  kid  gloves  and  smelt  of  the 
water  of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra's  room.  The  Ser- 
pent of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  ner  disrespectfully)  was 
reposing  on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at 
three  o  clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Flowers  the  maid 
was  fastening  on  her  youthful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  per- 
forming a  kind  of  private  coronation  ceremony  on  ner 
with  a  peach-colored  velvet  bonnet;  the  artificial  roses 
in  which  nodde^to  uncommon  advantage  as  the  palsy 
trifled  with  them  like  a  breeze.  _ 

"  I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous  this  morning,  Flowers," 
said'Mrs.  Skewton.     "  My  hand  quite  shakes." 

"You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  ma'am, 
you  know,"  returned  Flowers,  "  and  you  suffer  for  it  to- 
day, you  see." 

Edrth,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window, 
and  was  looking  out,  with  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet 
of  her  esteemed  mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as 
if  it  had  lightened. 

"  My  darling  child,"  cried  Cleopatra,  languidly,  "  you 
are  not  nervous?  Don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that 
you,  so  enviably  self-possessed,  are  beginning  to  be  a 
martyr  too,  like  your  unfortunately  constituted  mother! 
Withers,  some  one  at  the  door." 

"  Card,  ma'am,"  said  Withers,  taking  it  towards  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  it. 

"  My  dear  love,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  how  very 
odd  to  send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name! 
Bring  it  here.  Withers.  Dear  me,  my  love;  Mr.  Catkfc'c. 
too!  that  very  sensible  person'." 


92  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"lam  going  out,"  repeated  Edith,  in  so  impviriousa 
tone  that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  in- 
formed the  servant  who  was  waiting,  "  Mrs.  Dombey  is 
going  out.    Get  along  with  Tou,"  and  shut  it  on  him, . 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a  short  absence  and 
whispered  to  Withers  again,  who  once  more,  and  not 
very  willinglT,  presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey, 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  respect- 
ful compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  him  one 
minute,  if  you  could— for  business,  ma'am,  if  you 
please." 

"Really,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  in  her  mildest 
manner;  for  her  daughter's  face  was  threatening;  "if 
you  would  allow  me  to  offer  a  word,  I  should  recom- 
mend— " 

"Show  him  this  way,"  said  Edith.  As  Withers  dis- 
appeared to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowninjj 
on  her  mother,  "  As  he  comes  at  your  recommendation, 
let  him  come  to  your  room." 

"May  I — shall  I  go  away?"  asked  Florence,  hur- 
riedly. 

Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way^o  the  door  Flor- 
ence met  the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  dis- 
agreeable mixture  of  familiarity  and  forbearance  with 
which  he  had  first  addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now 
in  his  softest  manner — hoped  she  was  quite  well — 
needed  not  to  ask,  with  such  looks  to  anticipate  the  an- 
swer— had  scarcely  had  the  honor  to  know  her,  last 
night,  she  was  so  greatly  changed — and  held  the  door 
open  for  her  to  pass  out;  with  a  secret  sense  of  power  in 
her  shrinking  from  him  that  all  the  deference  and  po- 
liteness jof  his  manner  could  not  quite  conceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a  moment  over  Mrs,  Skew- 
ton's  condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to  Edith. 
Coldly  returning  his  salute  without  looking  at  him,  and 
neither  seating  herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be  seated, 
she  waited  for  nim  to  speak. 

Entrenched  in  her  pride  and  power,  and  with  all  the 
obduracy  of  her  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  her  old 
conviction  that  she  and  her  mother  had  been  known  by 
this  man  in  their  worst  colors,  from  their  first  acquaint- 
ance; that  every  degradation  she  had  suffered  in  her 
own  eyes  was  as  plain  to  him  as  to  herself;  that  he  read 
her  life  as  though  it  were  a  vile  book,  and  fluttereil  the 


dombeY  and  son.  &3 

leaves  before  her  in  slight  looks  and  tones  of  voice 
which  no  one  else  could  detect;  weakened  and  under- 
mined her.  Proudly  as  she  opposed  herself  to  him, 
with  her  commanding  face  exacting  his  humility,  her 
disdainful  lip  repulsing  him,  her  bosom  angry  at  his  in- 
trusion, and  the  dark  lashes  of  her  eye  sullenly  veiling 
their  light,  that  no  ray  of  it  might  shine  upon  him — and 
submissively  as  he  stood  before  her,  with  an  entreating 
injured  manner,  but  with  complete  submission  to  her 
will — she  knew,  in  her  own  soul,  that  the  cases  were  re- 
versed, and  that  the  triumph  and  superiority  were  his, 
and  that  he  knew  it  full  well. 

"I  have  presumed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "to  solicit  an 
interview,  and  I  have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being 
one  of  busjness,  because — " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  with  some 
message  of  reproof."  said  Edith.  "You  possess  Mr. 
Dombey's  confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  sir, 
that  you  would  scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your 


"  I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a  lustre 
upon  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "But  I  entreat  that 
lady,  on  my  own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a  very  humble 
claimant  for  justice  at  her  hands— a  mere  dependant  of 
Mr,  Dombey's — which  is  a  position  of  humility;  and  to 
reflect  upon  my  perfect  helplessness  last  night,  and  the 
impossibility  of  my  avoiding  the  share  that  was  forced 
upon  me  in  a  very  painful  occasion." 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a  low  voice, 
as  she  held  her  eye-glass  aside.  "  really  very  charming 
of  Mr.  What's-his-name,     And  full  of  heart!" 

"  For  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  a  look  of  grateful  deference, — "I  do  venture 
to  call  it  a  painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it 
was  so  to  me,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  present. 
So  slight  a  difference,  as  between  the  principals — be- 
tween those  who  love  each  other  with  disinterested  de- 
votion, and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of  self,  in  such  a 
cause— is  nothing.  As  Mrs.  Skewton  herself  expressed, 
with  so  much  truth  and  feeling  last  night,  it  is  noth- 
ing." 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  after  .  few 
moments, 

"  And  your  business,  sir—-" 


94  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

"Edith,  my  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "all  this  time 
Mr/Carker  ib  standing!  ,  My  dear  Mr.  Carker,  take  a 
seat,  I  beg." 

He  offered  no  reply  to  the  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  only  be 
bidden  by  her,  and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her. 
Edith,  in  spite  of  herself,  sat  down,  and  slightly  mo- 
tioned with  ner  hand  to  him  to  be  seated  too.  No  action 
could  be  colder,  haughtier,  more  insolent  in  its  air  of 
supremacy  and  disrespect,  but  she  had  struggled  agiunst 
even  that  concession  inelTectually,  and  it  was  wrested 
from  her.     That  was  enough!    Mr.  Carker  sat  down. 

"  May  I  be  allowed,  madam,"  said  Carker,  turning  his 
white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  hke  a  light— "a  lady  of 
your  excellent  sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me 
credit,  for  good  reason,  I  am  sure — to  address  what  I 
have  to  say,  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  to  leave  her  to  impart 
it  to  you  who  are  her  best  and  dearest  friend — neirt  to 
Mr.  Dombey?" 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped 
her,  Edith  would  have  stopped  him  too,  and  inaig- 
nantly  ordered  him  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but 
that  he  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  Miss  Florence — the  young 
lady  who  has  just  left  the  room — " 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him 
now.  As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  ut- 
most show  of  delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  .his  teeth 
persuasively  arrayed,  in  a  seli-depreciating  smile,  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  have  struck  him  dead. 

"Miss  Florence's  position,"  he  began,  "has  been  an 
unfortunate  one:     I  nave  a  difficulty  in  alluding  to  it  to 

?ou,  whose  attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watch- 
ul  and  jealous  of  every  word  that  applies  to  him," 
Always  distinct  and  soft  in  speech,  no  language  could 
describe  the  extent  of  his  distinctness  and  softness, 
when  he  said  these  words,  or  came  to  any  others  of  a 
similar  import.  "  But,  as  one  who  is  devoted  to  Mr. 
Dombey  in  his  different  way,  and  whose  life  is  passed 
in  admiration  of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may  I  say, 
without  offence  to  your  tenderness  as  a  wife,  that  Miss 
Florence  has  unhappily  been  neglected — by  her  father. 
May  I  say  by  her  father?" 

Edith  replied,  "  I  know  it," 

"You  know  it!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  great  appear- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  95 

ance  of  relief.  "  It  removeB  a  mountain  from  my  breast. 
May  I  hope  you  know  how  the  nefflect  originated;  in 
what  an  amiable  phase  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride — charac- 
ter I  mean  ?  " 

"You  may  pass  that  by,  sir,"  she  returned,  "and 
come  the  sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

"Indeed,  I  am  sensible,  madam,'  replied  Carker, — 
"  trust  me,  I  am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Dombey  can 
require  no  justification  in  anything,  to  you.  But  kindly 
judge  of  my  breast  by  your  own,  and  you  will  for^ve 
my  interest  in  him,  if  in  its  excess,  it  goes  at  Eill 
astray." 

What  a  stab  to  her  proud  heart  to  sit  there,  face  to 
face  with  him,  and  have  him  tendering  her  false  oath 
at  the  altar  again  and  again  for  her  acceptance,  and 
pressing  it  upon  her  like  the  dregs  of  a  sicliening  cup 
she  could  not  own  her  loathing  of,  or  turn  away  from! 
How  shame,  remorse,  and  passion  raged  within  her, 
when,  upright  in  her  beauty  before  him,  she  knew  that 
in  her  spirit  she  was  down  at  his  feet! 

"Miss  Plorence,"  said  Carker,  "left  to  the  care — if 
one  may  call  it  care — of  servants  and  mercenary  people, 
in  every  way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted  some 
fi^ide  and  compass  in  her  younger  days,  and,  naturally, 
for  want  of  them,  has  been  indiscreet,  and  has  in  some 
degree  forgotten  her  station.  There  was  some  folly 
about  one  Walter,  a  common  lad,  who  is  fortunately 
dead  now:  and  some  very  undesirable  association,  I 
regret  to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors,  of  anything 
but  good  repute,  and  a  runaway  old  bankrupt." 

"  I  have  heard  the  circumstances,  sir,"  said  Edith, 
flashing  her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  "and  I  know 
that  you  pervert  them.  You  may  not  know  it,  I  hope 
so." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  believe  that  no- 
body knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and 
ardent  nature,  madam — the  same  nature  which  is  so 
nobly  imperative  in  vindication  of  your  beloved  and 
honored  husband,  and  which  has  blessed  him  as  even 
his  merits  deserve — I  must  respect,  defer  to,  bow  before. 
But  as  regards  the  circumstances,  which  is  indeed  the 
business  I  presumed  to  solicit  your  attention  to,  I  can 
have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of  my  trust  as 
Mr.  Dombey's  confidential— I  presume  Vi  as.7j— ^'ev8>"cA,"V 


913  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

have  fully  ascertained  them.  In  my  execution  of  that 
trust;  in  my  deep  concern,  which  you  can  so  well  un- 
derstand, for  everything  relating  to  him,  intensified,  if 
you  will,  (for  I  fear  I  labor  under  your  displeasure,)  by 
the  lower  motive  of  desire  to  prove  my  diligence,  and 
make  myself  the  more  acceptable;  I  have  long  pursued 
these  circumstances  by  myself  and  trustworthy  instru- 
ments, and  have  innumerable  and  minute  proofs." 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but  she 
saw  the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth  it 
contained. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  continued,  "if,  in  my  per- 
plexity, I  presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  con- 
sult your  pleasure.  I  think  I  have  observed  that  you 
are  greatly  interested  in  Miss  Florence?" 

Wnat  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did 
not  know  ?  Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought, 
in  every  new  presentment  of  it,  however  faint,  she 
pressed  her  teeth  upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  com- 
posure on  it,  and  distantly  inclined  her  head  in  reply. 

"This  interest,  madam — so  touching  an  evidence  of 
everything  associated  with  Mr.  Dombey  being  dear  to 
you — induces  me  to,  pause  before  I  make  him  acquainted 
with  these  circumstances,  which,  as  yet,  he  does  not 
know.  It  so  far  shakes  me,  if  I  may  make  the  confes- 
sion, in  my  allegiance,  that  on  the  intimation  of  the 
least  desire  to  that  effect  from  you,  I  would  suppress 
them." 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back, 
bent  her  dark  glance  upon  him.  He  met  it  with  his 
blandest  and  most  deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

"  You  say  that  as  I  describe  them,  they  are  perverted, 
I  fear  not — I  fear  not;  but  let  us  assume  that  they  are. 
The  uneasiness  I  have  for  some  time  Celt  on  the  suDJect, 
arises  in  this:  that  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  asso- 
ciation often  repeated,  on  the  part  of  Miss  Florence, 
however  innocently  and  confidingly,  would  be  con- 
clusive with  Mr.  Dombey,  already  predisposed  against 
her,  and  would  lead  him  to  take  some  step  (I  know  he 
has  occasionally  contemplated  it)  of  separation  and 
alienation  of  her  from  his  home.  Madam,  bear  with 
me,  and  remember  my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dombey, 
and  my  knowledge  of  him,  and  my  reverence  for  him, 
almost  from  childhood,  when  I  say  that  if  he  has  a  fault. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  97 

it  in  a  lofty  stubbornness,  rooted  in  that  noble  pride  and 
sense  of  power  which  belong  to  him,  and  which  we 
must  all  defer  to;  which  is  not  assailable  like  the 
obstinacy  of  other  characters;  and  which  grows  upon 
itself  from  day  to  day,  and  year  to  vear." 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  nina  still;  but,  look  as  stead- 
fast as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her 
breath  came  somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip  would 
slightly  curl  as  he  described  that  in  his  patron  to  which 
they  must  all  bow  down.  He  saw  it;  and  though  his 
expression  did  not  change,  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

'•  Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night's,"  he  said, 
"if  I  might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  il- 
lustrate my  meaning  better  than  a  greater  one.  Dom- 
hey  and  Son  know  neither  time,  nor  place,  nor  season, 
but  l>ear  them  all  down.  But  I  rejoice  in  its  occurrence, 
for  it  has  oi)ened  the  way  for  me  to  approach  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey  with  this  subject  to-day,  even  if  it  nas  entailed  upon 
me  the  penalty  of  her  temporary  displeasure.  Madam, 
in  the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  apprehension  on  this 
subject,  I  was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  Leaming- 
ton. There  I  saw  you.  There  I  could  not  help  knowing 
what  relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  towards  him — 
to  his  enduring  happiness  and  yours.  There  I  resolved 
to  await  the  time  or  your  establishment  at  home  here, 
and  to  do  as  I  have  now  done,  I  have,  at  heart,  no  fear 
that  I  shall  be  wanting  in  my  duty  to  Mr,  Dombey,  if  I 
bury  what  I  know  in  your  breast;  for  where  there  is  but 
one  heart  and  mind  between  two  persons — as  in  such  a 
marriage — one  almost  represents  the  other.  I  can 
acquit  my  conscience  therefore,  almost  equally,  by  con- 
fidence, on  such  a  theme,  in  you  or  him.  For  the  rea- 
sons I  have  mentioned,  I  would  select  you.  May  I  aspire 
to  the  distinction  of  believing  that  my  confidence  is  ac- 
cepted, and  that  I  am  relieved  from  my  responsibility?  " 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him — who 
could  see  it,  and  forget  it?— and  the  struggle  that  ensued 
within  her.     At  last,  she  said: 

"I  accept  it,  sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this 
matter  at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  farther." 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took 
leave  with  all  humility.  But,  Withers,  meeting  him  on 
the  stairs,  stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and 
at  his  brilliant  smile;  and  as  he  rode  away  uv^^^"*-^ 


<m  DOMBEY  AND  SON.. 

wliite-legged  horse  the  people  took  him  for  a  dentist, 
such  was  the  dazzling  show  ne  made.  The  people  took 
her,  wheu  she  rode  out  in  her  carriage  presently,  for  a 
great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich  and  fine.  But 
they  had  not  seen  her,  just  before,  in  her  own  room  with 
no  one  by;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance  of  the 
three  words,  "Oh  Florence,  Florence!" 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her 
chocolate,  had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  wo ra  business, 
for  which  she  had  a  mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she 
had  long  banished  it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone 
nigh,  in  a  charming  manner  and  with  an  immense 
amount  of  heart  (to  say  nothing  of  soul),  to  ruin  divers 
milliners  and  others  in  consequence.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and  showed  no  curiosity. 
Indeed,  the  peach-velvet  bonnet  gave  her  sufficient 
occupation  out  of  doors;  for  being  perched  on  the  back 
of  her  head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windy,  it  was 
frantic  to  escape  from  Mrs.  Skewton's  company,  and 
would  be  coaxed  into  no  sort  of  compromise.  When 
the  carriage  was  closed,  and  the  wind  shut  out,  the 
palsy  played  among  the  artificial  roses  again,  like  an 
alms-house  full  of  superannuated  zephyrs;  and  alto- 
gether Mrs.  Skewton  had  enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but 
indifferently. 

She  got  on  no  better  towards  night;  for  when  Mrs. 
Dombey  iu  her  dressing-room  had  been  dressed  and 
waiting  for  her  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the 
drawing-room,  had  paraded  himself  into  a  state  of 
Kolenm  fretfulness  (they  were  all  three  going  out  to 
dinner).  Flowers  the  maid  appeared  with  a  pale  face  to 
Mrs.  Dombey,  saying: 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can't 
do  nothing  with  missisi" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Edith. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  replied  the  frightened  maid,  "I 
hardly  know.     She's  making  faces. 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother's  room,  Cleo- 
patra was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds, 
short-sleeves,  rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility 
all  complete;  but  Paralysis  was  not  -to  be  deceived,  had 
known  ner  for  the  object  of  its  errand,  and  had  struck 
her  at  her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a  horrible  doll  that 
had  tumbled  down. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Sa 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  verv  shame,  and  put  the 
little  of  her  that  was  real  on  a  bed.  Doctors  were  sent 
for,  and  soon  came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted 
to;  opinions  given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock, 
but  would  not  survive  another;  and  there  she  lay 
speechless,  and  staring  at  tlie  ceiling,  for  days:  some- 
times making  inarticulate  sounds  in  answer  to  such 
({uestions  as  did  she  know  who  were  present,  and  the 
like:  sometimes  giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or  gesture, 
or  in  her  unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in 
some  degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of 
speech.  One  day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned; 
and  showing  it  to  her  maid  who  was  in  -attendance  on 
her,  and  appearing  very  uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made 
signs  for  a  pencil  and  some  paper.  This  the  maid  im- 
mediately provided,  thinking  she  was  going  to  make  a 
will,  or  write  some  last  request;  and  Mrs.  Dombey  being 
from  home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result  with  solemn 
feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  put- 
ting in  of  wrong  cliaractcrs,  which  seemed  to  tumble 
out  of  the  pencil  of  their  own  accord,  the  old  woman 
produced  this  docuinejit: 

"  Rose-colored  curtains." 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  toler- 
able reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  hy 
adding  two  words  more,  when  it  stood  thus: 

"  Rose-colored  curtains  for  doctors." 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished 
these  articles  to  be  provided  for  the  better  presentation 
of  her  complexion  to  the  faculty;  and  as  those  in  the 
house  who  Knew  her  best  had  no  doubt  of  the  correct- 
ness of  this  opinion,  which  she  was  soon  able  to  estab- 
lish for  herself,  the  rose-colored  curtains  were  added  to 
her  bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased  rapidity  from 
that  hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and 
*a  laced  cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a  little  arti- 
ficial bloom  dropped  into  the  hollow  caverns  of  her 
cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  siglit  to  see  this  old  woman  in 
her  finery  leering  and  mmcing  at  Death,  and  playmst, 
oft  her  youthful  tricks  upon  bim  as  if  ^^e  \i.a,^\s^OTi  "Cv^ 
major;  but  an  alteration  m  her  mind  tt\BA  ei\wie&.  oTi  w^. 


100  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

paralytic  stroke  was  fraught  with  as  much  matter  for 
reflection,  and  was  quite  as  ghastly. 

Whether  the  wealtening  of  her  intellect  made  her 
more  cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  con- 
fused her  between  what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and 
what  she  really  had  been,  or  whether  it  had  awakened 
any  ^limmeriug  of  remorse  which  could  neither  strug- 
gle into  light  nor  get  back  into  total  darkness,  or 
whether,  in  the  jumble  of  her  faculties,  a  combination 
of  these  effects  had  been  shaken  up,  which  is  perhaps 
the  more  likely  supposition,  the  result  was  this: — That 
she  became  hugely  exact  in  respect  of  Edith's  affection 
and  gratitude  and,  attention  to  Jier;  highly  laudatory  of 
herself  as  a  most  inestimable  parent;  and  very  jealous 
of  having  any  rival  in  Edith's  regard.  Further,  in  place 
of  remembering  that  compact  made  between  them  for 
an  avoidance  of  the  subject,  she  constantly  alluded  to 
her  daughter's  marriage  as  a  proof  of  her  being  an  in- 
comparable mother;  and  all  this,  with  the  weakness 
and  peevishness  of  such  a  state,  always  serving  for  a 
sarcastic  commentary  on  her  levity  and  youthfumess. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Dombey?"  she  would  say  to  her 
maid. 

"  Gone  out,  ma'am." 

"Gone  out!  Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mama, 
Flowers?" 

"  La  bless  you,  no  ma'am.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  only 
gone  out  for  a  ride  with  Miss  Florence." 

"Miss  Florence.  Who's  Miss  Florence?  Don't  tell 
me  about  Miss  Florence.  What's  Miss  Florence  to  her, 
compared  to  me?" 

The  opposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  the  peach- 
velvet  bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  visitors. 
weeks  before  she  could  stir  out  of  doors),  or  the  dress- 
ing of  her  up  in  some  gaud  or  other  usually  stopped 
the  tears  that  began  to  now  hereabouts;  and  she  would 
remain  in  a  complacent  state  until  Edith  came  to  sect, 
lier;  when,  at  a  glance  at  the  proud  face,  she  would 
relapse  again. 

"Well,  I  am  sure,  Edith!"  she  would  cry,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother?  " 

"  Matter!  I  really  don't  know  what  is  the  matter. 
The  world  is  coming  to  sucA\  ai^  aTt\ficial  and  ungrate- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lOI 

fill  state  that  I  begin  to  think  there's  no  Heart — or  any- 
thing of  that  sort— left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is 
more  a  child  to  me  than  you  are.  He  attends  to  me 
much  more  than  my  own  daughter.  I  almost  wish  I 
didn't  look  so  young — and  all  that  kind  of  thing — and 
thenperhaps  I  should  be  more  considered." 

"  what  would  you  have,  mother?  " 

"Oh,  a  great  deal,  Edith,"  impatiently. 

"  la  there  anything  you  want  that  you  have  not?  It 
is  your  own  fault  if  there  he." 

"  My  own  fault! "  be^nning  to  whimper.  "  The  parent 
I  have  been  to  you,  Edith;  making  you  a  companion 
from  your  cradle!  And  when  you  neglect  me.  and  have 
no  more  natural  affection  for  me  than  if  I  was  a  stranger 
— not  a  twentieth  part  of  the  affection  that  you  have 
for  Florence — but  I  am  only  your  mother  and  should 
corrupt  Aer  in  a  dayl — you  reproach  me  with  its  being 
my  own  fault." 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  reproach  you  with  nothing.  Why 
will  you  always  dwell  on  this? 

"  Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  dwell  on  this,  when  I 
am  all  affection  and  sensitiveness,  and  am  wounded  in 
the  cruellest  way  whenever  you  look  at  me  ? " 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you.  mother.  Have  you  no 
remembrance  of  what  has  been  said  between  us?  Let 
the  Past  rest." 

"Yes,  rest!  And  let  gratitude  to  me,  rest;  and  let 
affection  for  me,  rest;  ana  let  me  rest  in  my  out-of-the- 
way-room,  with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you 
fina  new  relations  to  make  much  of,  who  have  no 
earthly  claim  upon  youl  Good  gracious,  Edith,  do  you 
know  what  an  elegant  establishment  you  are  at  the 
head  of?" 

"Yes.     Hush!" 

"And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey?  do  you 
know  that  vou  are  married  to  him,  Edith,  and  that  you 
have  a  settlement,  and  a  position,  and  a  carriage,  and  I 
don't  know  what?" 

"Indeed  I  know  it.  mother;  well." 

"As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful  good 
soul — what  did  they  call  him?— Granger — if  he  hadn't 
died.    And  who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this,  Edith?" 

"You,  mother;  you." 

"  Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck.,  a»i.  V\ss»  'm.^s 


102  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a 
better  mama  than  I  have  been  to  you.  And  don't  let 
me  become  a  perfect  fright  with  teazing  and  wearing 
myself  at  your  inKratitude,  or  when  I'm  out  aeain  in 
society  no  soul  will  know  me,  not  even  that  nateful 
animal,  the  major," 

But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and 
bending  down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to 
hers,  the  mother  would  draw  bacK  as  if  she  were  afraid 
of  her,  and  would  fall  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  cry 
out  that  there  was  a  wandering  in  her  wits.  And  some- 
times she  would  entreat  her,  with  humility,  to  sit  down 
on  the  chair  beside  her  bed,  and  would  look  at  her  (as 
she  sat  there  brooding)  with  a  face  that  even  the  rose- 
c<)lored  curtains  could  not  make  otherwise  than  seared 
and  wild. 

The  rose-colored  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time, 
on  Cleopatra's  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress — more 
juvenile  than  ever,  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness — and 
on  the  rouge,  and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls,  and  on 
the  diamonds,  and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the  whole 
wardrobe  of  tlie  doll  that  had  tumbled  down  before  the 
mirror.  They  blushed  too,  now  and  then,  upon  an  in- 
distinctness in  her  speech,  which  she  turned  pff  with  a 


girlish  gic^le,  and  on  an  occaEional  failing  in  her  mem- 
ory, that  nad  no  rule  in  it  but  came  and  wei 
cally,  as  if  in  mockery  of  her  fantastic  self. 


But  they  never  blushed  upon  a  change  in  the  new 
manner  of  her  thought  and  speech  towards  her  daugh- 
ter. And  though  that  daughter  often  came  within  their 
influence,  they  never  blushed  upon  her  loveUness  ir- 
radiated by  a  smile,  or  softened  by  the  light  of  filial 
love,  in  its  stem  beauty. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  103 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
MISS  Tox  lafraovEs  ak  old  acquaintance. 

The  forlorn  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  by  her  friend  Louisa 
Chick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombej's  countenance— for  no 
delicate  pair  of  weddins:  cards,  united  by  a  silver  thread, 
Kraced  the  chimney-glass  in  Princess's-place,  or  the 
harpsichord,  or  any  of  those  little  posts  of  display  which 
Lucretia  reserved  for  holiday  occupation — became  de- 
pressed in  her  spirits,  and  suffered  much  frpm  melan- 
choly. For  a  time  the  Bird  Waltz  was  unheard  in 
Princess's-place,  the  plants  were  neglected,  and  dust 
collected  on  the  miniature  of  Miss  Tox's  ancestor  with 
the  powdered  head  and  pigtail. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  was  not  of  an  age  or  of  a  disposi- 
tion long  to  abandon  herself  to  unavailing  regrets. 
Only  two  notes  of  the  harpsichord  were  dumb  from 
disuse  when  the  Bird  Waltz  again  warbled  and  trilled 
in  the  crooked  drawing-room;  only  one  slip  of  geranium 
fell  a  victim  to  imperfect  nursing  before  she  was  gar- 
dening at  her  green  baskets  again,  regularly  every 
morning;  the  powdered-headed  ancestor  nad  not  been 
under  a  cloud  for  more  than  six  weeks  when  Miss  Tox 
breathed  on  his  benignant  visage,  and  polished  him  up 
with  a  piece  of  wash-leather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  lonely,  and  at  a  loss.  Her  attach- 
ments, however  ludicrously  shown,  were  real  and  strong; 
and  she  was,  as  she  expressed  it,  "deeply  hurt  by  th<! 
unmerited  contumely  she  had  met  with  from  Louisa." 
But  there  was  no  such  thing  as  anger  in  Miss  Tox's 
composition.  If  she  had  ambled  on  through  life,  in  her 
soft-spoken  way,  without  any  opinions;  she  had,  at 
least,  got  so  far  without  any  harSh  passions.  The  mere 
sight  of  Louisa  Chick  in  the  street  one  day,  at  a  con- 
siderable distance,  so  overpowered  her  milky  nature 
that  she  was  fain  to  seek  immediate  refuge  in  a  pastrv- 
cook's.  and  there,  in  a  musty  little  back  room  usually 
devoted  to  the  consumption  of  soups,  and  pervaded  by 
an  oxtail  atmosphere,  relieve  her  feelings  by  weeping 
plentifully. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  fell  ^\x«X  ^(\^ 
had  any  reason  of  complaint.    Her  eeivse  ol  \,\\'i.V  ^e^W-a- 


104  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

man's  magnificence  was  such  that,  once  removed  from 
him,  she  felt  as  if  her  distance  always  had  been  im- 
measurable, and  as  if  he  had  greatly  condescended  in 
tolerating  her  at  all.  No  wife  could  be  too  handsome  or 
too  stately  for  him,  according  to  Miss  Tox's  sincere 
opinion.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  in  looking  for 
one,  he  should  look  high.  Miss  Tox  with  tears  laid 
down  this  proposition,  and  fully  admitted  it  twenty 
times  a  day.  She  never  recalled  the  lofty  manner  in 
which  Mr.  Dombey  had  made  her  subservient  to  his 
convenience  and  caprices,  and  had  graciously  permitted 
her  to  be  one  of  the  nurses  of  his  little  son.  She  only 
thought,  ill  her  own  words,  "that  she  had  passed  a 
great  many  happy  hours  in  that  house,  which  she  must 
ever  remember  with  gratification,  and  that  she  could 
never  cease  to  I'egard  Mr.  Dombey  as  one  of  the  most 
impressive  and  dignified  of  men," 

Cut  off.  however,  from  the  implacable  Louisa,  and 
being  shy  of  the  major  (whom  she  viewed  with  some 
distrust  now).  Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irk^me  to  know 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey's  estab- 
lishment. And  as  she  really  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
considering  Dombey  and  Son  as  the  pivot  oh  which  the 
world  in  general  turned,  she  resolved,  rather  than  be 
ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so  strongly  interested 
her,  to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Richards, 
who  she  knew,  since  her  last  memorable  appearance 
before  Mr.  Dombey,  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  hold- 
ing communication  with  his  servants.  Perhaps  Miss 
Tox  in  seeking  out  the  Toodle  family  had  the  tender 
motive  hidden  in  her  breast  of  having  somebody  to 
whom  she  could  talk  about  Mr,  Dombey,  no  matter  now 
humble  that  somebody  might  be. 

At  all  events,  towards  the  Toodle  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one»evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodle, 
cindery  and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three 
stages  of  existence.  He  was  either  taking  refreshment 
in  the  bosom  just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through 
the  country  at  from  twentj-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was  always 
in  a  whirlwind  or  a  calm,  and  a  peaceable  contented 
easy-going  man  Mr.  Toodle  was  in  either  state.  He 
seemed  to  have  made  over  all  his  own  inheritance  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  106 

fuming  and  fretting  to  the  engines  with  which  he  was 
connected,  which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  cliafed,  and 
wore  themselves  out  in  a  most  unsparing  manner,  while 
Mr,  Toodle  led  a  mild  and  equable  life, 

"  Polly,  my  gal,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  young  Toodle 
on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and 
plenty  more  scattered  about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out 
of  children,  but  always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand— 
"You  an't  seen  our  Biler  lately,  nave  you!-* 

''No,"  replied  Polly,  "but  he's  almost  certain  to  look 
in  to-night.  It's  his  right  evening,  and  he's  very  reg- 
ular." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  relishing  his  meal  infi- 
nitely, "as  our  Biler  is  a  doin'  now  about  as  well  as  a 
boy  can  do,  eh,  Polly?" 

"Oh!  he's  a  doing  beautiful!"  responded  Polly. 

"He  an't  got  to  oe  at  all  secret-like — has  he,  Polly?" 
inquired  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  Nol "  said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

"I'm  glad  he  an't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like,  Polly," 
observed  Mr.  Toodle  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and 
shovelling  in  his  bread  and  butter  with  a  clasp-knife,  as 
if  he  were  stoking  himself,  "because  that  don't  look 
well;  doit,  Polly ?'^ 

"Why,  of  course  it  don't,  father.   How  can  you  ask!" 

"You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  look- 
ing round  upon  his  family,  "wotever  vou're  up  to  in  a 
honest  way,  it's  m^  opinion  as  you  can  t  do  better  than 
be  open.  If  you  find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tun- 
nels, don't.you  play  no  secret  games.  Keep  your  whis- 
tles going,  and  let's  know  where  you  are." 

The  rising  Toodtes  set  up  a  shrill  murmur,  expressive 
of  their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice. 

"  But  what  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father?  " 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"PoUj,  old  'ooman,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "I  don't  know 
as  I  said  it  partickler  along  o'  Rob,  I'm  sure.  '  I  starts 
light  with  Rob  only;  I  comes  to  a  branch;  I  takes  on 
what  I  finds  there;  and  a  whole  train  of  ideas  gets 
coupled  on  to  him  afore  I  knows  where  I  am,  or  where 
they  comes  from.  Wliat  a  Junction  a  man's  thoughts 
is,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "to-be-sure!" 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodle  washed  down, 
with  a  pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  9.cJi,\^\\i  -wxWv 


106  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  great  weight  of  bread  and  butter;  cbai^ng  his  young 
daughters  meanwhile  to  keep  plenty  or  hot  water  in 
the  pot,  as  he  was  uncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the 
indefinite  quantity  of  "a  sight  of  mugs,"  before  his 
thirst  was  appeased. 

In  satisfymR  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  was  not 
regardless  of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who,  al- 
though they  had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were 
on  the  lookout  for  irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a 
relish.  These  he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  ex- 
pectant circle  by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread 
and  butter  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in  lawful  suc- 
cession, and  by  serving  out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like 
manner  with  a  spoon;  which  snacks  had  such  a  relish 
in  the  mouths  of  these  young  Toodles,  that,  after  partak- 
ing of  the  same,  they  performed  private  dances  of  ec- 
stasy among  themselves,  and  stood  on  one  leg  apiece, 
and  hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory  tokens  of 
gladness.  These  vents  for  their  excitement  found,  they 
gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle  again,  and  eyed  him 
hard  as  he  got  through  more  bread  and  butter  and  tea; 
affecting,  however,  to  have  no  further  expectations  of 
their  own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  con- 
versing on  foreign  subjects,  and  whispering  confiden- 
tially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and  set- 
ting an  awful  example  to  his  children  in  the  way  of  ap- 
petite, was  conveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his 
knees  to  Birmingham  by  special  engine,  and  was  con- 
templating the  rest  over  a  harrier  of  bread  and  butter, 
when  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  sou'wester  hat  and  mourn- 
ing slous,  presented  himself,  and  was  received  with  a 
general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her; 
"how  are  you,  mother?" 

"  There's  my  boy! "  cried  Polly,  giving  him  a  hug,  and 
a  pat  on  the  ba<^'k.  "  Secret!  Bless  you,  father,  not 
lie!" 

This  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle's  private  edification, 
but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  unwrung, 
caught  the  words  as  they  were  spoken. 

"what!  father's  been  a  saying  something  more  again 
me,  has  he?"  cried  the  injured  innocent.  "Oh,  what  a 
Iiard  thing  it  is  that  when  a  cove  has  once  gone  a  little 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  107 

wrong,  a  cove's  own  father  should  be  always  a  throw- 
ing it  in  his  face  behind  his  backl  It's  enough,"  cried 
Rob,  resorting  to  his  coat-cuff  in  anguish  of  spirit,  "  to 
make  a  covo  go  and  do  eomething  out  of  spite! " 

"My  poor  boy!"  cried  Polly,  "father  didn't  mean 
anything. " 

"If  father  didn't  mean  anything,"  blubbered  the  in- 
jured Grinder,  "why  did  he  go  and  say  anything, 
mother?  Nobodv  thinks  half  so  oad  of  me  as  my  own 
father  does.  Wnat  a  unnatural  thing!  I  wish  some- 
body'd  take  and  chop  my  head  off.  Father  wouldn't 
mind  doing  it,  I  believe,  and  I'd  much  rather  he  did 
that  than  tx>ther," 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles 
shrieked;  a  pathetic  effect,  which  the  Qrmder  improved 
by  ironically  adjuring  them  not  to  cry  for  him,  for  tbey 
ought  to  hate  him,  they  ought,  if  tKey  was  good  boys 
and  girls;  and  this  so  touched  the  youngest  Toodle  but 
one,  who  was  easilymoved,  that  it  touched  him  not  only 
in  his  spirit  but  in  nis  wind  too;  making  him  so  purple 
that  Mr.  Toodle  in  consternation  carried  him  out  to  the 
water-butt,  and  would  have  put  him  under  the  tap,  but 
for  his  being  recovered  by  the  sight  of  that  instrument. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  ex- 
plained, and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being 
thereby  calmed,  they  shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned 
again. 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  do,  Biler,  my  hoy?"  inquired  his 
father,  returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

"No,  thank'ee,  father.  Master  and  I  nad  tea  to- 
gether." 

"  And  how  is  master,  Rob?  "  said  Polly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  mother;  not  much  to  boast  on. 
There  ain't  no  bis'ness  done,  you  see.  He  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  the  cap'en  don't.  There  was  a  man 
come  into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says  '  I  want  a 
so-and-so,' he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.  'A 
which?'  says  the  cap'en.  'A  so-and-so,'  says  the  man. 
'  Brother,'  says  the  cap'en,  '  will  you  take  a  observation 
round  the  shop?'  'Well,'  says  the  man,  'I've  done  it." 
'  Do  you  see  wot  you  want  ?'  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I 
don't,'  says  the  man.  '  Do  you  know  it  wen  you  do 
see  it? '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I  don't,'  says  the  man, 
'  Why,  then  I  tell  you  wotj  my  lad,'  aa,y»  ^^  t^^a^  «vi.. 


108  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

'  you'd  better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it's  like,  outside,  for 
no  more  don't  I! '" 

"  That  ain't  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it?" 
said  Polly. 

"  Money,  motherl  He'll  never  make  money!  He  has 
such  wavs  as  I  never  see.  Hean'tabad  master  though. 
rU  ^ay  that  for  him.  But  that  an't  much  to  me,  for  t 
don't  think  I  shall  stop  with  him  long." 

"Not  stop  in  your  place,  RobI"  cried  his  mother: 
while  Mr.  T^odle  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Not  in  that  place,  p'raps,"  returned  the  Grinder, 
with  a  wink.  "I  shouldn't  wonder — friends  at  court 
yqu  know — but  never  you  mind,  mother,  just  now,  I'm 
all  right,  that's  all." 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  th^e  hints,  and  in 
the  Grinder  s  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  sub- 
ject to  that  failing  which  Mr,  Toodle  had,  by  implica- 
tion, attributed  to  him.  might  have  led  to  a  renewal  of 
his  wrongs,  and  of  the  sensation  in  the  family,  but  for 
the  opportune  arrival  of  another  visitor,  who  to  Polly's 
great  surprise,  appeared  at  the  door,  smiling  patronage 
and  friendship  on  all  there. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Richards!' "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I 
have  come  to  see  you.     May  I  come  in?" 

The  cheery  face"  of  Mrs.  Richards  shone  with  a  hos- 
pitable reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffertnl 
chair,  and  gracefully  recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her  way 
to  it.  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and  said  that  in  tho 
first  place  she  must  beg  the  dear  children,  one  and  all. 
to  come  and  kiss  her. 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would 
appear  from  the  frequency  of  his  domestic  troubles  to 
have  been  born  under  an  unlucky  planet,  was  prevent^ 
from  performing  his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by 
having  fixed  the  sou'wester  hat  {with  which  heliadlieeu 
previously  trifling)  deep  on  his  head,  hind  side  before, 
and  being  unable  to  get  it  off  again;  which  accident  pre- 
senting to  his  terrified  imagination  a  dismal  picture  of 
his  passing  the  rest  of  his  days  in  darkness,  and  in 
hopeless  seclusion  from  his  friends  and  family,  caused 
him  to  struggle  witli  great  violence,  and  to  utter  suffo- 
cating cries.  Being  released,  his  face  was  discovered 
to  be  very  hot,  and  red,  and  damp;  and  Miss  Tox  took 
him  on  her  lap,  much  exhausted, 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  109 

"You  have  almost  forEotten  me,  sir,  I  dare  say?" 
said  Miss  Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

'■  No,  ma'am,  no,  said  Toodle.  "  But  we've  all  on  us 
got  a  little  older  since  then." 

"  And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  sir?  "  inquired  Miss 
Tox,  blandly. 

•'Hearty,  ma'am,  thankee,"  replied  Toodle.  "How 
do  you  find  yourself  ma'am.  Do  the  rheumaticks  keep 
off  pretty  well,  ma'am?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow 
into  'em,  as  we  gets  on." 

"Thank  you,'  said  Misa  Tox.  "I  have  not  felt  any 
inconvenience  from  that  disorder  yet." 

•'  You're  wery  fortunate,  ma'am,  returned  Mr.  Toodle, 
"  Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  ma'am,  is  martyrs  to 

it.     There  was  my  mother "  but  catching  his  wife's 

eye  here,  Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried  the  rest  in  an- 
other mug  of  tea. 

"  You  never  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Mies 
Tox,  looking  at  Rob,  "  that  that  is  your — " 

"Eldest,  ma'am,"  said  Polly.  "Yes,  indeed,  it  is. 
That's  the  little  fellow,  ma'am,  that  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  so  much." 

"This  here,  ma'am,"  said  Toodle.  "is  him  with  the 
short  legs — and  they  was,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  atouch 
of  poetry  in  his  tone,  "unusual  short  for  leathers — as 
Mr.  Dombey  made  a  Grinder  on,"' 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The 
subject  of  it  had  a  peculiar  mterest  for  her  directly. 
She  asked  him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his 
mother  on  his  frank,  ingenuous  face,  ^^ob,  overhearing 
her,  called  up  a  look,  to  justify  the  eulogium,  but  it  was 
hardly  the  nght  look. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,"'  said  Miss  Tox, — "and 
you  too,  sir,"  addressing  Toodle — "I'll  tell  you,  plainly 
and  truly,  what  I  haje  come  here  for.  You  may  be 
aware,  Mrs.  Richards — and,  possibly  you  mavbe  aware 
too,  sir — that  a  little  distance  has  interposed  itself  be- 
tween me  and  some  of  my  friends,  and  that  where  I  used 
to  visit  a  good  deal  I  do  not  visit  now." 

Polly,  who,  with  a  woman's  tact,  understood  this  at 
once,  expressed  as  much  in-a  little  look.  Mr.  Toodle, 
who  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  Miss  Tox  was  talk- 
ing about,  expressed  that  also,  in  a  stare. 

"  Of  course,"  eaid  Miss  Tox,  "how  our  little  coolness 


110  DOilBEY  AXD  SOX. 

has  arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be 
dlscusw^d.  It  is  sufficient  forme  to  say,  that  I  have  the 
greateHl  possible  respect  for,  and  interest  in.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey;"  Miss  Toi's  voice  faltered;  "'and  everything  that 
relates  to  him," 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he 
had  heerd  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  think,  as 
Mr.  Dombey  was  a  difficult  subject. 

"  Pray  don't  say  so,  sir,  if  you  please,"  returned  Miss 
Tox.  "  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so,  sir,  either 
now,  or  at  any  future  time.  Such  observations  cannot 
but  be  very  painful  to  me;  and  to  a  gentleman,  whose 
mind  is  constituted  as  I  am  quite  sure  yours  is,  can  af- 
ford no  pennanent  satisfaction." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  not  entertained  the  least  doubt 
of  offering  a  remark  that  would  be  received  with  ac- 
quiescence, was  greatly  confounded, 

"All  that  I  wish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards," resumed  Miss 
Tox, — "  and  I  address  myself  to  you,  too,  sir,— is  this. 
That  any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family, 
of  the  welfare  of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  fam- 
ily, that  reaches  vou,  will  be  always  most  acceptable  to 
me.  That  I  shall  be  always  very  glad  to  chat  with  Mrs. 
Richards  about  the  family,  and  aliout  old  times.  And 
as  Mrs.  Richards  and  I  never  had  the  least  difference 
(though  I  could  wish  now  that  we  had  been  better  ac- 
quainted, but  I  have  no  one  but  myself  to  blame 
for  that),  I  hope  she  will  not  object  to  our  being 
very  good  friends  now,  and  to  my  coming  backwards 
ami  forwards  'here,  when  I  like,  without  being  a 
stranger.  Now  I  really  hope  Mrs.  Richards,"  said 
Miss  Tox,  earnestly,  "  that  you  will  take  this,  as  1 
mean  it,  like  a  good-humorcci  creature  as  you  always 
were. " 

Polly  was  gratified,  and  sliowec!  it.  Mr.  Toodle  didn't 
kiiiiw  wbnther  lie  was  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a 
stolid  calmness. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox — "and  I 
hiipe  you  see  too,  sir — there  are  many  little  ways  in 
whii^h  I  can  be  slightly  useful  to  you  if  vou  will  make 
no  stranger  of  me:  and  in  which  I  shall  ue  delighted  to 
be  HO.  For  instance,  I  can  teach  your  children  some- 
thing. I  shall  bring  a  few  little  books  if  you'll  allow 
ine,  an<l  some  work,  and  of  an  evening  now  and  then, 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Ill 

they'll  learn — dear  me,  they'll  learn  a  great  deal,  I 
trust,  and  be  a  credit  to  their  teacher." 
Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  learning, 

i'erked  his  head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened 
lis  hands  with  dawning  satisfaction. 

"  Then,  not  being  a  stranger,  I  shall  be  in  nobody's 
way,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  and  everything  will  go  on  just 
as  if  I  were  not  here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  lier  mend- 
ing, or  her  ironing,  or  her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  with- 
out minding  me:  and  you'll  smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if 
you're  so  disposed,  sir,  won't  you?" 

"Thank'ee  mum,"  said  Mr.  Toodle.  "Yes;  I'll  take 
my  bit  of  backer." 

"  Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox, 
"and  I  really  do  assure  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  it 
will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good 
I  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  do  the  children,  you  will 
more  than  pay  back  to  me  if  you'll  enter  into  this  little 
bargain  comfortably,  and  easily  and  good-naturedly, 
without  another  word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot;  and  Miss  Tox 
found  herself  so  much  at  home  already  that  without 
delay  she  instituted  a  preliminary  examination  of  the 
children  all  round— which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired — 
and  booked  their  ages,  names,  and  acquirements,  on  a 
piece  of  paper.  This  ceremony,  and  a  little  attendant 
gossip,  prolonged  the  time  until  after  their  usual  hour 
of  going  to  bed,  and  detained  Miss  Tox  at  the  Toodle 
fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  walk  home  alone. 
The  gallant  Grinder,  however,  being  still  there,  politely 
offered  to  attend  her  to  her  own  door;  and  as  it  was 
something  to  Miss  Tox  to  be  seen  home  by  a  youth 
whom  Mr.  Dombey  had  first  inducted  into  those  manly 
garments  which  are  rarely  mentioned  by  name  she  very 
readily  accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and 
kissing  all  the  children,  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  there- 
fore, with  unlimited  popularity,  and  carrying  away 
with  her  so  light  a  heart  that  it  might  have  given  Mrs. 
Chick  offence  if  that  good  lady  could  have  weighed  it. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  in  nis  modesty,  would  have  walked 
behind,  but  Miss  Tox  desired  him  to  keep  beside  her,  for 
conversational  purposes;  and,  as  she  afterwnrds  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  mother  "  drew  him  out"  upon  tUvix'^'^. 


112  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that 
Miss  Tox  was  charmed  with  hira.  The  more  Miss  Toi 
drew  him  out,  the  finer  he  came — like  wire.  There 
never  was  a  better  or  more  promising  youth — a  more 
affectionate,  steady,  prudent,  sober,  honest,  meet,  can- 
did young  man — than  Rob  drew  out  that  night. 

"  I  am  quite  glad,"  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own 
door,  "to  Know  you.  I  hope  you'll  consider  me  your 
friend,  and  that  you'll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
like.     Do  you  keep  a  money-box? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Rob;  "I'm  saving  up  against 
I've  got  enough  to  put  in  the  Bank,  ma'am. 

"  very  laudable  mdeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "I'm  glad 
to  hear  it.    Put  this  half-crown  into  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Rob,  "  but  really  I 
couldn't  think  of  depriving  you." 

"  I  commend  your  independent  spirit,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  but  it's  no  deprivation,  I  assure  you.  I  shall  be  offended 
if  you  don't  take  it,  as  a  mark  of  my  good  wilL  Qood 
night,  Robin." 

"  Qood  night,  ma'am,"  said  Rob,  "  and  thank  you! " 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it 
away  with  a  pieman.  But  they  never  taught  honor  at 
the  Grinders'  School,  where  the  system  that  prevailed 
was  particularly  strong  in  the  engendering  of  hypoc- 
risy. Insomuch  that  many  of  the  friends  and  masters 
of  past  Grinders  said,  if  this  were  what  came  of  educa- 
tion for  the  common  people  let  us  have  none.  Some 
more  rationally  said  let  us  have  a  better  one.  But  the 
governing  powers  of  the  Grinders'  Company  were 
always  ready  for  ffiem,  by  picking  out  a  few  boys  who 
had  turned  out  well,  in  spite  of  the  system,  and  roundly 
asserting  that  they  could  have  only  turned  out  well 
because  of  it.  Which  settled  the  business  of  those  ob- 
jectors out  of  hand,  and  established  the  glory  of  the 
Grinders'  Institution. 


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DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 
CHAPTER  IX. 


Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressed 
onward  that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  Instrument- 
maker  as  the  term  during  which  his  friend  should  re- 
frain from  opening  the  sealed  packet  accompanying 
the  letter  he  had  left  for  him  was  now  nearly  expired, 
and  Captain  Cuttle  began  to  look  at  it  of  an  evening 
with  feelings  of  mystery  and  unea»iuess. 

The  captain,  in  his  honor,  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  of 
the  term  as  he  would  have  thought  of  opening  himself 
to  study  his  own  anatomy.  He  merely  Drought  it  out, 
at  a  certain  stage  of  his  first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  sat  gazing  at  the  outside  oi  it,  through  the 
smoke^  in  silent  gravity,  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a  spell. 
Sometimes,  when  he  nad  contemplated  it  thus  for  a 

eretty  long  while,  the  captain  would  hitch  his  chair,  by 
egrees,  farther  and  farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the 
range  of  its  fascination;  but  if  this  were  his  design,  he 
never  succeeded :  for  even  when  he  was  brought  up  by  the 
parlor  wall  the  packet  still  attracted  him;  or  if  bis 
eyes,  in  thoughtful  wandering,  roved  to  the  ceiling  or 
the  fire,  its  image  immediately  followed,  and  posted 
itself  conspicuously  among;  the  coals,  or  took  up  an 
advantageous  position  on  tTie  whitewash. 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  captain's  parental 
regard  and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But.  since  his 
last  interview  with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had 
come  to  entertain  doubts  whether  his  former  interven- 
tion in  behalf  of  that  young  lady  and  his  dear  boy 
Wal'r  bad  proved  altogether  so  favorable  as  he  could 
have  wished,  and  as  he  at  the  time  believed.  The  cap- 
tain was  troubled  with  a  serious  misgiving  that  be  bad 
done  more  harm  than  good,  in  short;  and  in  his  remorse 
and  modesty  he  made  the  best  atonement  he  could  think 
of,  by  putting  himself  out  of  the  way  of  doing  any  barm 
to  anyone,  and,  as  it  were,  throwing  himself  overboard 
for  a  dangerous  person. 
Self-huried,  therefore,  among  the  vw^.tTMsw^-cAs,.  "Ocve 


114  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

captain  never  went  near  Mr,  Dombey's  house,  or  re- 
ported himself  in  any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper. 
He  even  severed  himself  from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  next  visit,  by  dryly  informing  that  gentle- 
man that  he  thanked  him  for  his  company  but  had  cut 
himself  adrift  from  all  such  acquaintance,  as  he  didu't 
know  what  magazine  he  mightn't  blow  up  without 
meaning  of  it.  In  this  self-imposed  retirement,  the 
captain  passed  whole  days  and  weeks  without  inter- 
changing a  word  with  any  one  but  Rob  the  Grinder, 
whom  he  esteemed  as  a  pattern  of  disinterested  attach- 
ment and  fidelity.  In  this  retirement  the  captain,  gaz- 
ing at  the  packet  of  an  evening,  would  sit  smokmg, 
and  thinking  of  Florence  and  poor  Walter,  imtil  they 
both  seemed  to  bis  homely  fancy  to  be  dead,  and  to 
have  passed  away  into  eternal  youth,  the  beautiful  and 
innocent  children  of  his  first  remembrance. 

The  captain  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  neglect 
his  own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of  Rob  the 
Grinder.  That  young  gentleman  was  generally  re- 
quired to  read  out  of  some  book  to  the  captain,  for  one 
hour  every  evening;  and  as  the  captain  implicitly  be- 
lieved that  all  books  were  true,  he  accumulated,  by 
this  means,  many  remarkable  facts.  On  Sunday 
nights,  the  captain  always  read  for  himself,  before 
going  to  bed,  a  certain  Divine  Sermon  once  delivered 
on  a  Mount;  and  although  he  was  accustomed  to  quote 
the  text,  without  book,  after  his  own  manner,  he  ap- 
peared to  read  it  with  as  reverent  an  understanding 
of  its  Jieiivenly  spirit  as  if  he  had  got  it  all  by  heart 
in  Greek,  and  had  been  able  to  write  any  number  of 
fierce  theological  disquisitions  on  its  every  phrase. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired 
writings,  under  the  admirable  system  of  the  Grinders' 
S<rhooI,  had  been  developed  by  a  perpetual  bruising  of 
his  intellectual  shins  against  all  the  proper  names  of  all 
the  tribes  of  Judah,  and  by  the  monotonous  repetition 
of  hard  verses,  especially  by  way  of  punishment,  and 
by  the  parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather 
breeches  three  times  a  Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a  very 
hot  church,  with  a  great  organ  buzzing  against  his 
drowsy  head,  like  an  exceedingly  busy  nee— Rob  the 
Grinder  made  a  mighty  show  of  being  edified  when  the 
captain  ceased  to   read,  and   generally  yawned  and 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  US 

nodded  while  the  reading  was  in  progress.  The  latter 
fact  being  never  so  much  as  suspected  by  the  good 
captain. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also,  as  a  man  of  business,  took  to 
keeping  books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the 
weather,  and  on  the  currents  of  the  wagons  and  other 
vehicles  r  which  he  observed  in  that  quarter,  to  set  west- 
ward in  the  morning  and  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
day,  and  eastward  towards  the  evening.  Two  or  three 
stragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who  "  spoke  him  " — so 
the  captain  entered  it — on  the  subject  of  epectacles,  and 
who,  without  positively  purchasing,  said  they  would 
look  in  again,  the  captain  decided  that  the  business  was 
improving,  and  made  an  entry  in  the  day-book  to  that 
effect;  the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he  first  recorded) 
pretty  freshj  west  and  by  north;  having  changed  in  the 
night. 

One  of  the  captain's  chief  difficulties  was  Mr.  Toots, 
who  called  frequently,  and  who,  without  saying  much, 
seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  the  little  back  parlor  was 
an  eligible  room  to  chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and 
avail  himself  of  its  accommodations  in  that  regard  by  ■ 
the  half -hour  together,  without  at  all  advancing  in  inti- 
macy with  the  captain.  The  captain,  rendered  cautious 
by  his  late  experience,  was  unable  quite  to  satisfy  his 
mind  whether  Mr,  Toots  was  the  mild  subject  he  ap- 

fieared  to  be,  or  was  a  profoundly  artful  and  dissirau- 
ating  hypocrite.  His  frequent  reference  to  Miss 
Dombey  was  suspicious;  but  the  captain  had  a  secret 
kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  apparent  reliance  on  him,  and 
forebore  to  decide  against  him  for  the  present;  merely 
eyeing  him,  with  a  sagacity  not  to  be  described,  whea- 
ts .'er  he  approached  the  subject  that  was  nearest  to  his 
hiL^art. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr,  Toots,  one  day  all  at 
once,  as  his  manner  was,  "do  you  think  you  could 
think  favorably  of  that  proposition  of  mine,  and  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance?" 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a  course  of 
action;  "  I've  been  turning  that  there,  over." 

"Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr. 
Toots,  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Upon  my  word 
and  honor,   Captain  Gills,   it  would  be  a  cKixxV^  Va 


116  DOMBEY  AND  SOJS'. 

give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.     It  really 
would." 

"You  see,  brother,"  argued  the  captain  slowly,  "I 
don't  know  you." 

"  But  you  never  can  know  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied 
Mr.  Toots,  steadfast  to  his  ^oint,  "  if  you  don't  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

Tuo  captain  seemed  struck  hv  the  originality  and 
power  of  this  remark,  aud  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if  he 
thought  there  was  a  great  deal  more  in  him  th:m  be 
had  expected. 

"Well  said,  my  lad,"  observed  the  captain,  nodding 
his  head  thoughtfully;  "  and  true.  Now  look'ee  here: 
You've  made  some  observations  to  me,  which  gives  me 
to  understand  as  you  admire  a  certain  sweet  treetur. 
Hey?" 

"Captain  Gills,"'  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  vio- 
lently with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  "Ad- 
miration is  not  the  word.  Upon  my  honor,  you  have 
no  conception  what  my  feelings  are.  If  I  could  he  dyed 
black,  aud  made  Miss  Dorabey's  slave,  1  should  con- 
sider it  a  compliment.  If,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  ray 
property,  I  could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Donibey  s 
dog — I — I  really  think  I  should  never  leave  off  wagging 
my  tail.    I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy,  Captain  Gills! ' 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his 
hat  against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

"  My  lad."  returned  the  captam,  moved  to  compassion, 
"  if  you're  in  arnest — " 

"  Captain  Gills,'"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  "  I'm  in  such  a 
state  of  mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I 
could  swear  to  it  upon  a  hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a  live  coal 
or  melted  lead,  or  burning  sealing-wax,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  I  should. be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a  relief  h< 
my  feelings."'  And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly  about 
the  room,  as  if  for  some  sufficiently  painful  means  of 
accomplishing  his  dread  jjurpose. 

The  captain  pushed  his,  glazed  hat  back  upon  his 
head,  stroked  his  face  down  wifli  his  heavy  hand- 
making  his  nose  more  mottled  in  the  process — an<i 
planting  himself  before  Mr.  Toots,  and  hooking  him  by 
the  lappel  of  his  coat,  addressed  him  in  these  word^. 
while  Mr,  Toots  looked  up  into  his  face  with  inucli  _ 
attention  and  some  wonder. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  U? 

"  If  you're  in  amest,  you  see,  my  lad,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  you're  a  object  or  clemeacy,  and  clemency  is  the 
brightest  jewel  in  the  crown  of  a  Briton's  head,  for 
which  you'll  overhaul  the  constitution,  as  laid  down  in 
Rule  Britannia,  and,  when  found,  that  is  the  charter  as 
them  garden  angels  was  a  singing  of,  bo  many  times 
over.  Stand  by  I  This  here  proposal  o'  your'n  takes  me 
a  Ifttle  aback.  And  why?  Because  I  holds  my  own 
only,  you  understand,  in  these  here  waters,  and  haven't 
gotnoconeurt,  and  may  be  don't  wish  for  none.  Steady! 
You  hailed  me  iirst,  aloug  of  a  certain  young  lady,  as 
you  was  chartered  by.  Now  if  you  and  me  is  to  keep 
one  another's  company  at  all,  that  there  young  creetur  s 
name  must  never  be  named  nor  referred  to.  I  don't 
know  what  harm  mayn't  have  been  done  by  naming  of 
it  too  free  afore  now,  and  thereby  I  brings  up  short. 
P'  ye  make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother?" 

'  Well,  you'll  excuse  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  "if  I  don't  quiW  follow  you  sometimes.  But 
upon  my  word  I — it's  a  hard  thing,  Captain  Gills,  not  to 
be  able  to  mention  Miss  Dombey.  I  really  have  got 
such  a  dreadful  load  here!" — Mr.  Toots  pathetically 
touched  his  shirt  front  with  both  hands — "that  I  feel 
night  and  day  exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting  upon 
me." 

'■  Them,"  said  the  captain,  "  is  the  terms  I  offer.  If 
they're  hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are, 
give  'em  a  wide  berth,  sheer  ofE,  and  part  company 
cheerily!" 

"Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  hardly  know 
how  it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I  came  here, 
for  the  first  time,  I — I  feel  that  I'd  rather  think  about  Miss 
Dombey  in  your  society  than  talk  about  her  in  almost 
anybody  else's.  Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if  you'll  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  accept  it  on  your  own  conditions.  I  wish  to 
be  honorable.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding 
back  his  extended  hand  for  a  moment,  "and  therefore 
I  am  obhced  to  say  that  I  can  not  help  thinking  about 
Miss  Domoey.  It's  impossible  for  me  to  make  a  promise 
not  to  think  about  her." 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  whose  opinion  of  Mr. 
Toots  was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal,  "a 
man's  thoughts  is  like  the  winds,  and  nobodY  c.a.ti"^. 


118  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

answer  for  'em  for  certain,  anylength  of  time  together. 
Is  it  a  treaty  as  to  words?  *' 

"  As  to  words,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I 
tiiink  I  can  bind  niyself." 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  then 
and  there;  and  the  captain,  with  a  pleasant  and  gra- 
cious show  of  condescension,  hestowed  his  acquaintjince 
upon  him  formally.  Mr.  Toots  seemed  mucn  relieved 
and  gladdened  by  the  acquisition,  and  chuckled  rap- 
turously during  the  remainder  of  his  visit.  The  cap- 
tain, for  his  part,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  pccupy  that 
position  of  patronage,  and  was  exceedingly  well  satis- 
fied by  his  own  prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality, 
he  received  a  surprise  that  same  evening  from  a  no  less 
ingenuous  and  snnple  youth  than  Rod  the  Grinder. 
That  artless  lad,  drmking  tea  at  the  same  table,  an^ 
bending  meekly  over  his  cup  and  saucer,  having  taken 
sidelong  observations  of  his  master  for  some  time,  who 
was  reading  the  newspaper  with  great  difficulty,  but 
much  dignity  through  hia  glasses,  broke  silence  by 
saying — 

'•  On!  I  beg  your  pardon,  captain,  but  you  mayn't  be 
in  want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  sir?" 

"  No,  my  lad, '  replied  the  captain. 

"  Because  I  was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine,  captain," 
said  Rob. 

"  Ay,  ay?  "  cried  the  captain,  lifting  up  his  bushy  eye- 
brows a  little. 

"Yes;  I'm  going,  captain,  if  you  please,"  said  Rob, 

"  Going?  Where  are  you  going?  asked  the  captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

"What?  didn't  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  leave 
you,  captain?"  asked  Rob,  with  a  sneaking  smile. 

The  captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  off  his  spec- 
tacles, and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

"  On  yes,  cap^in,  I  am  going  to  give  you  warning.  I 
thought  you'd  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps," 
said  Rob.rubbine  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  "If  you 
could  he  so  good  as  provide  yourself  soon,  captain,  it 
would  be  a  great  convenience  to  me.  You  couldn't  pro- 
vide yourself  by  to-morrow  morning,  I  am  afraid,  cap- 
tain; could  you,  do  you  think?  " 

"  And  you're  a  going  to  desert  your  colors  are  you,  my 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  119 

lad?"  said  the  captain,  after  a  loug  examination  of  hie 
face. 

"  Oh,  it's  very  hard  upon  a  cove,  captain,"  cried  the 
tender  Rob,  injured  and  indignant  in  a  moment,  "that 
he  can't  give  lawful  warning  without  being  frowned 
at  in  that  way,  and  called  a  deserter.  You  haven't 
any  right  to  call  a  poor  cove  names,  captain.  It 
an  t  because  I'm  a  servant  and  you're  a  master  that 
you're  to.go  and  libel  me.  What  wrong  have  I  doue.' 
Come,  captain,  let  me  know  what  my  crime  is,  will 
you?" 

The  stricken  grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuff  in  his 
eye. 

"Come,  captain,"  cried  the  injured  youth,  "give  my 
crime  a  name!  What  have  I  been  and  done?  Have  I 
stoleu  any  of  the  property?  Have  I  set  the  house  a-fire? 
If  I  have,  why  don't  you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try  it? 
But  to  take  away  the  character  of  a  lad  that's  been  a 
good  servant  to  you  because  he  can't  afford  to  stand  in 
his  own  light  for  your  good,  what  a  injury  it  is,  and 
what  a  bad  return  for  faithful  service!  This  is  the  way 
young  coves  is  spiled  and  drove  wrong.  I  wonder  at 
you,  captain,  1  do." 

All  of  which  the  Grinder  howled  forth  in  a  lachry- 
mose whine,  and  backing  carefully  towards  the  door. 

"  And  so  you've  got  another  hertn,  have  you,  my  lad  'i " 
said  the  captain,  eyeing  him  intently. 

"Yes,  captain,  smce  j'ou  put  it  in  that  shape,  I  have 
got  another  berth,"  cried  Rob,  backing  more  and  more; 
"a  better  berth  than  I've  got  here,  and  one  where  I 
don't  so  much  as  want  your  good  word,  captajn,  which 
is  fort'nate  for  me,  after  all  Uie  dirt  you've  throw'd  at 
me,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my  own 
light  for  your  good.  Yes,  I  have  got  another  berth;  and 
if  it  wasn't  for  leaving  jou  unprovided,  captain,  I'd  go 
to  it  now,  sooner  than  I  d  take  them  names  from  yon, 
because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand-in  my  own 
light  for  your  good.  Why  do  you  reproach  me  for  being 
jwor,  and  not  standing  in  my  own  light  for  your  good, 
captain?    How  can  you  so  demean  yourself?" 

"Look  ye  here,  my  boy,"  replied  tne  peaceful  captain, 
"  Don't  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words," 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words, 
captain,"  retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  lowv\e-5 


120  DOMEEY  AND  SON. 

in  his  whine,  and  backing  into  the  shop.  "  I'd  sooner 
you  took  my  blood  than  my  character." 

"Because,"  pursued  the  captain  calmly,  "you  have 
heerd,  may  he,  of  such  a  thing  as  a  roije's  end." 

"Oh,  have  I  though,  captain-"'  cried  the  taunting 
Grinder.  "  No  I  haven't.  I  never  heerd  of  any  such  a 
article!" 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  "it's  my  belief  as  you'll 
know  more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a 
bright  lookout.  I  can  read  your  signals,  my  lad.  You 
may  go." 

"  OhI  I  may  go  at  once,  may  I,  captain?  "  cried  Rob, 
exulting  in  his  success.  "But  mind!  /never  asked  to 
go  at  once,  captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my 
character  again  because  you  send  me  off  of  your  own 
accord.  And  you're  not  to  stop  any  of  ray  wages,  cap- 
tain!" 

His  employer  settled  thelastpointby  producingthe  tin 
canister  and  telling  the  Grinder's  money  out  in  full  upon 
the  table,  Rob,  snivelling  and  sobbing,  and  grievously 
wounded  in  his  feelings,  took  up  the  pieces  one  by  one, 
with  a  sob  and  a  snivel  for  each,  and  tied  them  up 
separately  in  knots  in  his  pocket-handkerchief;  then  he 
ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house  and  filled  his  hat  and 
pockets  with  pigeons;  then  came  down  to  his  bed  under 
the  counter  and  made  up  his  bundle,  snivelling  and 
sobbing  louder,  as  if  he  were  cut  to  the  heart  hv  old  asso- 
ciations; then  he  whined,  "  Good  night,  captain,  I  leave 
you  without  malice!  "and  then,  going  out  upon  the  door- 
step, pulled  the  little  midshipman's  nose  as  a  parting 
inmgnity,  and  went  away  down  the  street  grinning 
triumph. 

The  captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of  the 
news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken 
place,  and  went  reading  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity. 
But  never  a  word  did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though 
he  read  a  vast  number,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  was  scamper- 
ing up  one  column  and  down  another  all  through  the 
newspaper. 

It  IS  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  captain  had  ever 
felt  himSelf  quite  abandoned  until  now;  but  now,  old 
Sol  Gills,  Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him 
indeed,  and  now  Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  him 
cnifUy.     They  were  all   represented   in   the  false  Rob. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  l:il 

to  whom  he  had  held  forth  many  a  time  on  the  recoUec- 
tionB  that  were  warm  within  him;  he  had  believed  in 
the  false  Kob,  and  had  been  glad  to  helieve  in  him;  he 
had  made  a  companion  of  him  as  the  last  of  the  old  ship's 
company;  he  had  taken  the  command  of  the  little  mid- 
tfihipmau  with  him  at  his  right  hand;  he  had  meant  to  du 
his  duty  by  him,  and  had  lelt  almost  as  kindly  towards 
the  boy  as  if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  and  cast  upon 
a  desert  place  together.  And  now  that  the  false  Kob 
had  brought  distrust,  treachery  and  meanness  into  the 
very  parlor,  which  was  a  kind  of  sacred  place,  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  as  if  the  parlor  might  have  gone  down  next, 
and  not  surprised  him  much  by  its  sinking,  or  given 
him  any  very  great  concern. 

Therefore  Captain  Cuttle  read  the  newspaper  with  pro- 
found attention  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore 
Captain  Cuttle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  him- 
self, or  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about 
him,  or  would  recognise  in  the  most  distant  manner  that 
Rob  had  anything  to  do  with  his  feeling  as  lonely  as 
Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed  business-like  way  the  captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  Market  in  tne  dusk,  and 
effected  an  arrangement  with  a  private  watchman  on 
duty  to  come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shutters  of 
the  Wooden  Midshipman  every  night  and  morning. 
He  then  called  in  at  the  eating-house  to  diminish  by  one 
half  the  daily  rations  theretofore  supplied  to  the  mid- 
shipman, and  at  the  public-house  to  stop  the  traitor's 
beer.  "  My  young  man,"  said  the  captam,  in  explana- 
tion to  the  young  ladv  at  the  bar,  "my  young  man 
having  bettered  himself,  miss."  Lastly,  the  captain 
resolved  to  take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  to  turn-in  there  o'nights  instead  of  up-stairs,  as  sole 
guardian  of  the  property. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  thenceforth, 
and  clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  the  solitary  airof  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet  with 
his  goat-skin  cap;  and  although  his  fears  of  a  visitation 
from  the  savage  tribe,  MacStinger,wa8  somewhat  cooled, 
as  similar  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  that  lone  mariner 
used  to  be  by  tlie  lapse  of  a  long  interval  without  any 
symptoms  of  the  cannibals,  he  still  observed  a  regular 
routme  of  defensive  operations,  and  aeM^i  e."ttQo\j.u'Vfc'!e>\ 


1S3  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  bonnet  without  previous  survey  from  his  castle  of 
retreat.  In  the  meantime  (during  which  he  received  no 
call  from  Mr,  Toots,  wlio  wrote  to  say  he  was  out  of 
town)  his  own  voice  began  to  have  a  strange  sound  in 
his  ears;  and  he  acquired  such  habits  of  profound  medi- 
tation from  much  polishing  and  stowing  away  of  the 
stock,  and  from  much  sitting  behind  the  counter  read- 
ing, or  looking  out  of  window,  that  the  red  rim  made  on 
his  forehead  oy  the  hard  glazed  hat  sometimes  ached 
again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired,  Captain  Cuttle  deemed 
it  expedient  to  open  the  packet;  but  as  he  had  always 
desired  doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  Grinder, 
who  nad  brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that  it 
would  be  regular  and  shipshape  to  open  it  in  the  presence 
of  Boraebody,  he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want  of  a 
witness.  In  this  difficulty,  lie  hailed  one  day  with 
unusual  delight  the  announcement  in  the  Shippmg  In- 
telligence of  the  arrival  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  Captain 
John  Bunsby,  from  a  coasting  voyage;  and  to  that 
philosopher  immediately  despatched  a  letter  by  post, 
enjoining  inviolable  secresy  as  to  his  place  of  residence, 
and  requesting  to  be  favored  with  an  early  visit,  in  the 
evening  seasou. 

Bunsoy,  who  was  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon 
conviction,  took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  thor- 
oughly into  his*  mind  that  be  had  received  a  letter  to 
this  effect.  But  when  he  had  grappled  with  the  fact 
and  mastered  it,  he  promptly  sent  his  boy  with  the  mes- 
sage, "  He's  a  coming  to-nignt."  Who,  being  instructed 
to  deliver  those  words  and  disappear,  fulfilled  his  mis- 
sion like  a  tarry  spirit  charged  with  a  mysterious  warn- 
ing. 

The  captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  prepara- 
tion of  pipes  and  rum  and  water,  and  awaited  his  vis- 
itor in  the  back  parlor.  At  the  hour  of  eight,  a  deep 
lowing,  as  of  a  nautical  bull,  outside  the  shop-door, 
succeeded  by  the  knocking  of  a  stick  on  the  panel,  an- 
nounced to  the  listening  ear  of  Captain  Cuttle  that 
Bunsby  was  alongside;  whom  he  instantly  admitted, 
shaggy  and  loose,  and  with  his  stolid  mahogany  visage, 
as  usual,  appearing  to  have  no  consciousness  of  anything 
before  it,  but  to  be  attentively  observing  something  that 
was  taking  place  in  quite  another  part  of  the  world, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  123 

"  Bunsby, "  said  the  captain,  grasping  him  by  the 
hand,  "  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?  " 

"  Shipmet,"  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unac- 
companied by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  commander 
himself,  "Hearty,  hearty." 

"  Bunsby!"  said  the  captain,  rendering  irrepressible 
homage  to  his  genius,  "  here  you  are!  a  man  ae  can  give 
an  opmiou  as  is  brighter  than  di'monds— and  give  me 
the  lad  with  the  tarry  trousers  as  shines  to  me  like 
di'monds  bright,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  theStanfell's 
Budget,  and  when  found  make  a  note.  Here  you  are, 
a  man  as  gave  an  opinion  in  this  here  very  place  that 
has  come  true,  every  letter  on  it,"  which  the  captain 
sincerely  believed. 

"  Ay,  ay? "  growled  Bunsby. 

"  Every  letter,"  said  the  captain. 

"For  why?"  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  friend 
for  the  first  time.  "  Which  way?  If  eo,  why  not? 
Therefore."  With  these  oracular  words — they  seemed 
almost  to  make  the  captain  giddy;  they  launched  him 
upon  such  a  sea  of  speculation  and  conjecture— the  sage 
submitted  to  be  helped  off  with  his  pilot-coat,  and  ac- 
companied his  friend  into  the  back  parlor,  where  his 
hand  presently  alighted  on  the  rum-bottle,  from  which 
he  brewed  a  stiff  glass  of  grog;  and  presently  afterwards 
on  a  pipe,  which  he  filled,  lighted,  and  began  to  smoke. 

Captain  Cuttle,  imitating  nis  visitor  in  the  matter  of 
these  particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable 
manner  of  the  great  commander  was  far  above  his 
powers,  sat  in  the  opposite  comer  of  the  fireside,  observ- 
ing him  respectfully,  and  as  if  he  waited  for  some  en- 
couragement or  expression  of  curiosity  on  Bunsby's  part 
which  should  lead  him  to  bis  own  affairs.  But  as  the 
mahogany  philosopher  gave  no  evidence  of  being  sen- 
tient of  anything  but  warmth  and  tobacco,  except  once, 
when  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  make  room  for  his 
glass,  he  incidentally  remarked  with  exceeding;  gruff- 
ness  that  his  name  was  Jack  Bunsby — a  declaration 
that  presented  but  small  opening  for  conversation — the 
captain  bespeaking  his  attention  in  a  short  complimen- 
tary exordium  narrated  the  whole  history  of  Uncle  Sol's 
departure,  with  the  change  it  had  produced  in  his  own 
life  and  fortunes;  and  concluded  by  placing  the  packet 
on  the  table. 


124  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

After  a  long  pause,  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 

"  Open?  "  said  the  captain. 

Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed 
to  view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read 
the  indorsements  J  thus:  "  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 
Solomon  Gills."     "  Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle." 

Bunsby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland, 
seemed  to  listen  for  the  contents.  The  captain  therefore 
hemmed  to  clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  letter  aloud, 

"' My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I  left  home  for  the 
West  Indies ' " — 

Here  the  captain  stopped,  and  looked  hard  at  Bunsby. 
who  looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

— "  '  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy, 
I  knew  that  if  you  were  acquainted  with  my  design, 
you  would  thwart  it,  or  accompany  me;  and  therefore  I 
kept  it  secret.  If  you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ned,  I  am 
likely  to  be  dead.  You  will  easily  foi^ve  an  old  f  riend's 
folly  then,  and  will  feel  for  the  restlessness  and  uncer- 
tainty in  which  he  wandered  away  on  such  a  wild  voy- 
age. So  no  more  of  that.  I  have  little  hope  that  my 
poor  boy  will  ever  read  these  words,  or  gladden  your 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  his  frank  face  any  more."  No, 
no;  no  more,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorrowfully  medi- 
tating; "  rto  more.     There  he  lays,  all  his  davs — " 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a  musical  ear,  suddenly  bel- 
lowed, "  In  tne  Bays  of  Biscay,  O!"  which  so  affeetfd 
the  good  captain,  as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed 
worth,  that  ne  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  acknowledg- 
ment, and  was  fain  to  wipe  his  feyes. 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  captain  with  a  sig'h,  as  the 
lament  of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  m  the  sky- 
light. "Affliction  sore,  long  time  he  bore,  and  let  us 
overhaul  the  wollum,  and  there  find  it." 

"  Physicians,"  observed  Bunsby,  "  was  in  vain." 

"  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  captain,  "  what's  the 

food  o'  them  in  two  or  three  hundreti  fathom  o'  water! " 
hen,  returning  to  the  letter,  he  read  on :— "  '  But  if  he 
should  be  by,  when  it  is  opened;'"  the  captain  involun- 
tarily looked  round,  and  shook  his  heaa;  '"or  should 
know  of  it  atany  other  time,'"  the  captain  shook  his 
head  again;  " '  riiy  blessing  on  him!  In  case  the  accom- 
panying paper  is  not"  legally  written,  it  matters  very 


DOMBEV  AND  SON.  125 

little,  for  there  is  no  one  inteiested  but  you  and  he,  and 
my  plain  wish  is,  that  if  he  is  living  he  should  have 
what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I  fear)  otherwise, 
that  you  should  have  it,  Ned.  You  will  respect  my  wish, 
I  know.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  all  your  friendli- 
ness besides,  to  Solomon  Gills.  '  Bunsby ! "  said  the  cap- 
tain, appealing  to  him  solemnly, ' '  what  do  you  m'ake  of 
this?Tnere  you  sit,  a  man  as  has  had  his  head  broke  from 
infancy  up'ards,  and  has  got  a  new  opinion  into  it  at 
every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now  what  do  you 
make  o'  this?  " 

"  If  so  be,"  returne<l  Bunsby,  with  unusual  prompti- 
tude, "as  he's  dead,  my  opinion  is  he  won't  come  back 
no  more.  If  so  be  as  he's  alive,  my  opinion  is  he  will. 
Do  I  say  he  will?  No,  Why  not?  Because  the  bearings 
of  this  obserwation  lays  in  the  application  on  it." 

"Bunsliy!"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to 
have  estimated  the  value  of  his  distinguished  friend's 
opinions  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficulty 
he  experienced  in  making  anything  out  of  them; 
"  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  quite  confounded  by  ad- 
miration, "you  carry  a  weight  of  mind  easy,  as  would 
swamp  one  of  my  tonnage  soon.  But  in  regard  o'  this 
here  will,  I  don't  moan  to  take  no  steps  towards  the 
property — Lord  forbid! — except  to  keep  it  for  a  more 
riKhtful  owner;  and  I  hope  yet  as  the  rightful  owner, 
Sol  Gills,  is  living  and  '11  come  back,  strange  as  it  is 
that  he  ain't  forwardod  no  despatches.  Now  what  is 
your  opinion,  Bunsby,  as  to  stowing  of  these  here 
papers  away  again,  and  marking  outside  as  they  was 
pened,  sucn  a  day,  in  presence  of  John  Eunsbv  and 
fdard  Cuttle?" 

Bunsby  descrying  no  objection  on  the  coast  of  Green- 
land or  elsewhere  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into 
execution:  and  that  great  man,  bringing  his  ey^into 
the  present  for  a  moment,  affixed  his  sign-manual  to 
the  cover,  totally  abstaining,  with  characteristic  mod- 
esty, from  the  use  of  capital  letters.  Captain  Cuttle, 
having  attached  his  own  left-handed  signature,  and 
locked  up  the  packet  in  the  iron  safe,  entreated  his 
guest  to  mix  another  glass  and  smoke  another  pipe;  and 
doing  the  like  himself,  fell  a  musing  over  the  nre  on  the 
posBiDle  fortunes  of  the  poor  old  Instrument-mateT , 

And  now  a  surprise  occurred,  so  ove'n!ti\\«ATtv«v%  ^vs\?». 


S 


126  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

terrifle  that  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  pres- 
ence of  Bunsby,  must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been 
a  lost  man  from  that  fatal  hour. 

How  the  captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admit- 
ting such  a  guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door  and  not 
locked  it,  of  which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly 
guilty,  is  one  of  those  questions  that  must  for  ever  rt-- 


maiii  mere  points  of  speculation,  or  vague  charges 
against  destuiy.  But,  by  that  unlocked  door,  at  this 
quiet  moment,  did  the  fell  MacStinger  dash  into  the 


parlor,  bringing  Alexander  MacStiuger  in  her  parental 
arms,  and  confusion  and  vengeance  (not  to  mention 
Juliana  MacStinger,  and  the  sweet  child's  brother, 
Charles  MacStinger  popularly  known  about  the  scenes 
of  his  youthful  sports  as  Cnowley)  in  her  train.  She 
came  so  swiftly  and  so  silently,  like  a  rushing  air  from 
the  neighborhood  of  the  East  India  Docks,  that  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  found  liimself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting 
looking  at  her,  before  the  calm  face  with  which  he 
had  been  meditating  changed  to  one  of  horror  and 
dismay. 

But,  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full 
extent  of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an 
attempt  at  flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which 
opened  from  tlie  parlor  on  the  steep  little  range  of 
cellar-steps,  the  captain  made  a  rush,  head-foremost,  at 
the  latter,  like  a  man  indifferent  to  bruises  and  con- 
tusions, who  only  sought  to  hide  himself  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth.  In  this  gallant  effort  he  would  probably 
have  succeeded  but  for  the  affectionate  dispositions  of 
Juliana  and  Chowley,  who  pinning  him  by  the  legs — 
one  of  those  dear  children  holding  on  to  each — claimed 
him  as  their  friend,  with  lamentable  cries.  In  the 
meantime,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who  never  entered  upon 
any  ^action  of  importance  without  previously  invertmg 
Alexander  MacStinger,  to  bring  him  within  the  range 
of  a  brisk  battery  of  slaps,  and  then  sitting  him  down 
to  cool  as  the  reader  first  beheld  him,  performed  that 
solemn  rite,  as  if  on  this  occasion  it  were  a  sacrifice  to 
the  Furies;  and  having  deposited  the  victim  on  the 
floor,  made  at  the  captam  with  a  strength  of  purpose 
that  appeared  to  threaten  scratches  to  the  interposing 
Bunsby. 

The  cries  of  the  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wail- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  137 

ing  of  young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have 
passed  a  pieoald  childhood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black 
in  the  face  during  one  half 'of  that  fairy  period  of  exist- 
ence, combined  to  make  this  visitation  the  more  awful. 
But  when  silence  reigned  again,  and  the  captain,  in  a 
violent  perspiration,  stood  meekly  looking  at  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  its  terrors  were  at  their  height. 

"Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle!"  said  Mrs;  Mac- 
Stinger,  making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison 
with  what,  but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  bo 
described  as  her  fist.  "  Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle, 
do  you  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be  struck 
down  in  the  berth  I" 

The  captain,  who  looked  anything  but  daring,  feebly 
muttered,  "Stand  by!" 

"Oh  I  was  a  weak  and  trusting  fool  ^hen  I  took  you 
under  my  roof,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  I  was!"  cried  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger.  "To  think  of  the  benefits  I've  showered  on 
that  man,  and  the  way  in  which  I  brought  my  children 
up  to  love  and  Aonor  him  as  if  he  was  a  father  to  'om, 
•when  there  an't  a  'ousekeeper,  no  nor  a  lodger  in  our 
street,  don't  know  that  I  lost  money  by  that  man,  and 
by  his  guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings  ' — Airs.  MacStinger 
used  the  last  word  for  the  joint  sake  of  alliteration  and 
aggravation,  rather  than  for  the  expression  of  any  idea 
—"and  when  they  cried  out  one  and  all,  shame  upon 
him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious  woman,  up  early 
and  late  tor  the  good  of  her  younr;  family,  and  keeping 
her  poor  place  so  clean  that  a  individual  might  have  ate 
his  dinner,  yes.  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  disposed, 
off  any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his  guz- 
zlings and  his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and  pains 
bestowed  upon  him!" 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  breath ;  and  her 
face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  intro- 
duction of  Captain  Cuttle's  muzzlings. 

"And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay!"  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
with  a  lengthening-out  of  the  last  svHable  that  made 
the  unfortunate  captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest 
of  men:  "and  keeps  away  a  twelvemonth!  From  a 
woman;  Sitch  is  his  conscience!  He  hasn't  the  courage 
to  meet  her  hi-i-i-igh;"  long  syllable  again;  "hut  steals 
away,  like  a  felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of  mine,"  said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  rapidity,  "■«»,?> 'uj  q'5'?.-^ 


128  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  go  and  steal  away,  I'd  do  my  duty  as  a  mother  by 
him  till  he  was  covered  with  walesi" 

The  younK  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a  positive 
promise,  to  oe  shortly  retleemed,  tumbled  over  with  fear 
and  grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  the  soles 
of  his  shoes  and  making  such  a  deafening  outcry  that 
Mrs.  MacStinger  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  up  in 
lier  arms,  where  she  quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  as  he 
broke  out  again,  by  a  shake  that  seemed  enough  to 
loosen  his  teeth. 

"A  pretty  sort  of  a  man  is  Cap' en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs, 
MacStmger,  with  a  sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable  of 
the  captain's  name,  "to  take  on  for — and  to  lose  sleep 
for,  and  to  faint  along  of — and  to  think  dead  forsooth— 
and  to  go  up  and  down  the  blessed  town  like  a  mad 
woman,  asking  questions  after!  Oh,  a  pretty  sort  of  a 
man!  Ha  ha  Im  na!  He's  worth  all  that  trouble  and 
distress  of  mind,  and  much  more.  That's  nothing,  bless 
you!  Ha  ha  ha  ha!  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs,  Mac- 
Stinger,  with  severe  reaction  in  her  voice  and  manner, 
"  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a-coming  home." 

The  frightened  captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he 
saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself  up, 

"Cap'en  Cuttle,"  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the 
same  determined  manner,  "I  wish  to  know  if  you're 
a-coming  home,  sir." 

The  captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  sug- 
gested sometliing  to  the  effect  of  "  not  making  so  much 
nise  about  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay,"saidBunsby,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "A wast, 
my  lass,  awast!" 

"And  who  may  you  be,  if  you  please!"  retorted  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  chaste  loftiness.  "Did  you  ever  lodge 
at  Number  Nine,  Brig  Place,  sir?  My  memory  may  be 
bad,  but  not  with  me,  I  think.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Joll- 
son  lived  at  Number  Nine  before  me,  and  perhaps  you're 
mistaking  me  for  her.  That  is  my  only  ways  of  account- 
ing for  your  familiarity,  sir," 

"Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast,  awast!"  said  Bunsby, 

Captain  Cuttle  could  liardly  believe  it,  even  of  this 
great  man.  tliough  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes; 
but  Bunsby.  advancing  boldly,  put  his  :haggy  blue  arm 
round  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  so  softened  her  l>y  his  magic 
way  of  doing  it,  and  by  these  few  words-^he  said  no 

D,-....,Cooi^lc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  129 

more — that  she  melted  into  tears  after  looking  upon  him 
for  a  few  moments,  and  observed  that  a  chilo  might 
conquer  her  now,  she  was  so  low  in  her  courage. 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  captain  saw  him 
gradually  persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the  shop, 
return  for  rum  and  water  and  a  candle,  take  them  to 
her,  and  pacify  her  without  appearing  to  utter  one  word. 
Presently  he  looked  in  with  nis  pilo^noat  on.  and  said, 
"Cuttle,  I'm  a-going  to  act  as  convoy  home;"  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than  if  he  had  been 
put  in  irons  himself  for  safe  transport  to  Brig  Place, 
saw  the  family  pacifically  filing  off,  with  Mrs.  MacStin- 

fer  at  their  head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  take  down 
is  canister,  and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the 
hands  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  his  former  favorite,  and 
Chowley,  who  had  the  claim  upon  him  that  he  was  nat- 
urally of  a  maritime  build,  before  the  Midshipman  was 
abandoned  by  them  all;  and  Bunstrj',  whispering  that 
he'd  carry  on  smart,  and  hail  Ned  Cuttle  again  before 
he  went  aboard,  shut  the  door  upon  himself,  as  the  last 
member  of  the  party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  his 
sleep,  or  that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and 
not  a  family  of  flesh  and  blood,  beset  the  captain  at  first 
when  he  went  back  to  the  little  parlor  and  found  him- 
self alone.  Illimitable  faith  in,  and  immeasurable  ad- 
miration of,  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara 
succeeded,  and  threw  the  captain  into  a  wondering 
trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunshy  failed  to  reappear, 
the  captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  of 
another  kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  de- 
coyed to  Brig  Place,  and  was  there  detained  in  safe  cus- 
tody as  hostage  for  his  friend;  in  which  case  it  would 
become  the  captain,  as  a  man  of  honor,  to  release  him, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  liberty.  Whether  he  had 
been  attacked  and  defeated  by  Mrs.  MacStinger.  and 
was  ashamed  to  show  himself  after  his  discomfiture. 
Whether  Mrs,  MacStinger,  thinking  better  of  it,  in  the 
uncertainty  of  her  temper,  had  turned  back  to  board  the 
Midshipman  again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to  conduct 
her  by  a  short  cut,  was  endeavoring  to  lose  the  family 
amid  the  wilds  and  savage  places  of  the  city.  A.bciNfe 
{Ul,  what  it  would  behoove  nim,  Captam  CmVA&iXo  ^o,Sxi. 


130  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

case  of  his  hearing  no  more  either  of  the  MacStingers 
or  of  Bunsby,  which,  in  these  wonderful  and  unforeseen 
conjunctions  of  events,  mic:ht  possibly  happen. 

He  debated  all  this  until  he  was  tired;  and  still  no 
Bunsby.  He  made  up  his  bed  under  the  counter,  ail 
ready  for  turning  in;  still  no  Bunsby.  At  length,  when 
the  captain  had  given  him  up,  for  that  night,  at  least, 
and  had  begun  to  undress,  the  sound  of  approaching 
wheels  was  heard,  and,  stopping  at  the  door,  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Bunsby's  hail. 

The  captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
was  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in 
a  coach. 

But  no.  Bunsbv  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but  a 
lai^e  box,  which  he  hauled  into  the  shop  with  his  own 
hands,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  hauled  in  sat  upon. 
Captain  Cuttle  knew  it  for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs. 
MacStinger's  house,  and  looking,  candle  in  hand,  at 
Bunsby  more  attentively,  believed  that  he  was  three 
sheets  in  the  wind,  or,  in  plain  words,  drunk.  It  was 
difficult,  however,  to  be  sure  of  this;  the  commander 
having  no  trace  of  expression  in  liis  face  when  sober. 

"  Cuttle,"  said  the  commander,  getting  oflf  the  chest, 
and  opening  the  lid,  "are  these  here  yourtraps?" 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and  identified  his  property. 

"Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,  hey  shipmet?"  said 
Bunsby. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  captain  grasped  him  by 
the  hand,  and  was  launching  mto  a  reply  expres- 
sive of  his  astonished  feelings,  when  Bunsby  disen- 
gaged himself  by  a  jerk  of  his  wrist,  and  seemed  to 
make  an  effort  to  winlt  with  his  revolving  eye,  the  only 
effect  of  which  attempt,  in  his  condition,  was  nearly  to 
overbalance  him.  He  then  abruptly  opened  the  door, 
and  shot  away  to  rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara  with  all 
speed — supposed  to  be  his  invariable  custom,  whenever 
he  considered  he  had  made  a  point. 

As  it  was  not  his  humor  to  oe  often  sought.  Captain 
Cuttle  decided  not  to  go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or  until 
he  should  make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in  such 
wise,  or  failing  that,  until  some  little  time  should  have 
elapsed.  The  captain,  therefore,  renewed  his  solitary 
life  next  morning,  and  thought  profoundly,  many  morn- 
ings, noons,  and  nights,  of  old  Sol  Gills,and  Bunsby's  sen- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  131 

timenta  concerning  him,and  the  hopes  there  were  of  his 
return.  Much  of  such  thinking  strengthened  Captain 
Cuttle's  hopes;  and  he  humored  them  and  himself  by 
watching  for  the  Instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he 
ventured  to  do  now,  in  his  strange  liberty — and  setting 
his  chair  in  its  place,  and  arranging  the  little  parlor  as 
it  used  to  be,  in  case  he  should  come  nome  unexpectedly. 
He  likewise,  in  his  thoughtfulneas,  took  down  a  certam 
little  miniature  of  Walter  as  a  school-boy,  from  its  accus- 
tomed nail,  lest  it  should  shock  the  old  man  on  his  re- 
turn. The  captain  had  his  presentiments  too,  sometimes, 
that  he  would  come  on  such  a  day;  and  one  particular 
Sunday  even  ordered  a  double  allowance  of  dinner,  he 
was  so  sanguine.  But  come,  old  Solomon  did  not.  And 
still  the  neighbors  noticed  howlJie  seafaring  man  in  the 
glazed  hat  stood  at  the  shop  door  of  an  evemng,  looking 
up  and  down  the  street. 


CHAPTER   X. 

DOMESTIC  RELATIONS. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  mood,  opposed  to  such  a  spirit  as  he  had  raised 
against  himself,  should  be  softened  in  the  imperious  as- 
perity of  his  temper;  or  that  the  cold  hard  armor  of  pride 
in  which  he  lived  encased  should  be  made  more  flexible 
by  constant  collision  with  haughty  scorn  and  defiance.  It 
is  the  curse  of  such  a  nature— it  is  a  main  part  of  the 
heavy  retribution  on  itself  it  bears  within  itself — that 
while  deference  and  concession  swell  its  evil  qualitiM, 
and  are  the  food  it  grows  upon,  resistance,  and  a  ques- 
tioning of  its  exacting  claims,  foster  it  too,  no  less.  The 
evil  that  is  in  it  finds  equally  its  means  of  growth  and 
propagation  in  opposites.  It  draws  support  and  life  from 
STveets  and  bitters:  bowed  down  before,  or  unacknowl- 
edged, it  still  enslaves  the  breast  in  which  it  has  its 
throne;  and,  worshipped  orrejected,  is  as  hard  amaster 
as  the  Devil  in  dark  tables. 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Doiribey,  "«i  V\a  <yA&.«.ti&. 


133  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lofty  arrogance,had  borne  himself  like  the  removed  being 
he  almost  conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been  "  Mr. 
Dombey "'  with  her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he  was 
"Mr.  Dombey"  when  she  died.  He  had  asserted  his 
greatness  during  their  whole  married  life,  and  she  bad 
meekly  recognised  it.  He  had  kept  his  distant  seat  of 
state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  she  her  humble  station 
on  its  lowest  step;  and  much  good  it  had  done  him  so 
to  live  in  solitary  bondage  to  his  one  idea.  He  had  im- 
agined that  the  proud  character  of  his  second  wife  would 
have  been  added  to  his  own — would  have  merged  into  it, 
and  exalted  his  greatness.  He  had  pictured  himself 
haughtier  than  ever,  with  Edith's  haughtiness  subser- 
vient to  his.  He  had  never  entertained  the  possibility 
of  its  arraying  itself  against  him.  And  now,  when  he 
found  it  rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and  turn  of  his 
daily  life,fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  contemptuous  face 
upon  him,  this  pride  of  his  instead  of  withering,  or  hang- 
ing down  its  head  beneath  the  shock,  put  forth  new 
slioots,  became  more  concentrated  and  intense,  more 
gloomy,  sullen,  irksome,  and  unyielding  than  it  had 
ever  been  before. 

Who  wears  such  armor  too,  bears  with  him  ever  an- 
other heavy  retribution.  It  is  of  proof  against  concilia- 
tion, love,  and  confidence:  against  all  gentle  sympathy 
from  without,  all  trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion; 
but  to  deep  stabs  in  the  self-love  it  is  as  vulnerable  as 
the  bare  breast  to  steel;  and  such  tormenting  festers 
rankle  there  as  follow  on  no  other  wounds,  no,  though 
dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of  pride  itself  on  weaker 
pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 

Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply  in  the  _ 
solitude  of  his  old  rooms;  whither  he  now  began  often 
to  retire  again,  and  pass  long  solitary  hours.  It  seemed 
his  fate  to  be  ever  proud  and  powerful:  ever  humbled 
and  powerless  where  he  would  be  most  strong.  Who 
seemed  fated  to  work  out  that  doom? 

Who  ?  Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  wife  as  she  had 
won  his  boy!  Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that 
new  victory,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark  corner!  Who  was  it 
who.se  least  word  did  what  his  utmost  means  could  not? 
Who  was  it  who,  unaided  by  his  love,  regard,  or  notice, 
thrived  and  grew  beautiful  when  those  so  aided  died! 
Who  could  it  be,  but  the  same  child  at  whom  he  Imd 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  133 

often  glanped  uneasily  in  her  motherless  infancy,  with 
a  kind  of  dread,  lest  he  might  come  to  hate  her;  and  of 
whom  his  foreboding  was  fulfilled  for  he  did  hate  her 
in  his  heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it 
hatred,  though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she 
had  appeared  before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his 
return  nome  with  his  bride,  occasionally  hung  about  her 
still.  He  knew  now  that  she  was  beautiful;  he  did  not 
dispute  that  she  was  graceful  and  winning,  and  that  in 
the  bright  dawn  of  her  womanhood  she  had  come  unon 
liim,  a  surprise.  But  he  turned  even  this  against  her. 
In  his  sulleu  and  unwholesome  brooding,  the  unhappy 
man,  with  a  dull  perception  of  his  alienation  from  ail 
hearts,  and  a  vague  yearning  for  what  he  had  all  his 
life  repelled,  made  a  distortea  picture  of  his  rights  and 
wrongs,  and  justified  himself  with  it  against  her.  The 
worthier  she  promised  to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim 
he  was  disposed  to  ante-date  upon  her  duty  and  sub- 
mission. When  had  she  ever  shown  him  duty  and 
submission?  Did  she  grace  his  life— or  Edith's?  Had 
her  attractions  been  manifested  first  to  him^or  Edith? 
Why,  he  and  she  had  never  been,  from  her  birth,  like 
father  and  child!  They  had  always  been  estranged. 
She  had  crossed  him  every  way  and  everywhere.  She 
was  leagued  against  him  now.  Her  very  beauty  soft- 
ened natures  that  were  obdurate  to  him,  and  insulted 
him  with  an  unnatural  triumph. 

It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutter- 


ings  of  an  awakened  feeling  in  his  breast,  however 
selfishly  aroused  by  his  position  of  disadvantage,  in 
comparison  with  what  she  might  have  made  his  life. 


But  ne  silenced  the  distant  thunder  with  the  rolling  of 
his  sea  of  pride.  He  would  bear  nothing  but  his  pride. 
And  in  his  pride,  a  heap  of  inconsistency,  and  self-in- 
flicted torment,  he  hatea  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed 
him,  his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force. 
They  never  could  have  led  a  happy  life  together;  but 
nothing  could  have  made  it  more  unhappy  than  the  wilful 
and  determined  warfare  of  such  elements.  His  pride  was 
set  upon  maintaining  his  magnificent  supremacy,  and 
forcing  recognition  of  it  from  her.  She  would  hav& 
been  racked  to  death,  and  turned  but  \iet  \va.\i'^\l 


i;Ji  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fiance  of  calm  inflexible  disdain  Upon  him  .to  the  last 
uch  recognition  from  Edithl  He  little  knew  throu^ 
what  a  storm  and  struggle  she  had  been  driven  onviutl 
to  the  crowning  honor  of  his  hand.  He  little  knew 
how  much  she  thought  she  had  conceded  when  she 
suffered  him  to  call  her  wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was 
supreme.  There  must  be  no  will  but  his.  Proud  he 
desired  that  she  should  be,  but  she  must  be  proud  for. 
not  against  him.  As  he  sat  alone,  hardening,  he  would 
often  hear  her  go  out  and  come  home  treading  the 
round  of  London  life  with  no  more  heed  of  his  \ik\ae 
or  disliking,  pleasure  or  displeasure,  than  if  he  haa 
been  her  groom.  Her  cold  supreme  indifference — hie 
own  unquestioned  attribute  usurped — stung  him  more 
than  any  other  kind*  of  treatment  could  have  done; 
and  he  determined  to  bend  her  to  his  magnificent  and 
stately  will. 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts, 
when  one  night  he  sought  her  m  her  own  apartment, 
after  he  had  heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was 
alone,  in  her  brilliant  dress,  and  had  but  that  moment 
come  from  her  mother's  room.  Her  face  was  melan- 
choly and  pensive,  when  he  came  upon  her;  but  it 
marked  him  at  the  door;  for,  glancing  at  the  mirror 
before  it,  he  saw  immediately,  as  in  a  picture-frame, 
the  knitted  brow,  and  darkened  beauty  that  he  knew  so 
well. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  said,  entering,  "  I  must  beg  leave 
to  have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"To-morrow,"  she  replied. 

"  There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  madam,"  he  re- 
turned. "You  mistake  your  position,  I  am  used  to 
choose  my  own  times;  not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me. 
I  think  you  scarcely  understand  who  and  what  I  am, 
Mrs.  Dombey." 

"I  think,"  she  answered,  "that  I  understand  you 
very  well." 

she  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her 
white  arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her 
swelling  breast,  turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her 
cold  composure,  slie  might  not  have  had  the  power  of 
impressing  him  with  the  sense  of  disadvantage  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  135 

penetrated  through  his  utmost  pride.  But  she  had  the 
power,  and  he  felt  it  keenly.  He  glanced  round  the 
room:  saw  how  the  splendid  means  of  personal  adorn- 
ment, and  the  luxuries  of  dress,  were  scattered  here 
and  there,  and  disregarded;  not  in  mere  caprice  and 
carelesBnesB  (or  so  he  thought),  but  in  a  steadfast, 
haughty,  disregard  of  costly  thmgs:  and  felt  it  more 
and  more.  Cnaplets  of  flowers,  plumes  of  feathers, 
jewels,  laces,  silks  and  satins;  look  where  he  would,  he 
saw  riches,  despised,  poured  out,  and  made  of  no  ac- 
count. The  very  diamonds — a  marriage  gift — that  rose 
and  fell  impatiently  upon  her  bosom,  seemed  to  pant  to 
break  the  chain  that  clasped  them  round  her  neck,  and 
roll  down  on  the  floor  where  she  might  tread  upon 
thera. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  be  showed  it.  Solemn 
and  strange  among  this  wealth  of  color  and  voluptuous 
glitter,  strange  and  constrained  towards  its  haughty 
mistress,  whose  repellent  beauty  it  repeated,  and  pre- 
sented all  around  him,  as  in  so  many  fragments  of  a 
mirror,  he  was  conscious  of  embarrassment  and  awk- 
wardness. Nothing  that  ministered  to  her  disdainful 
self-possession  coum  fail  to  gall  him.  Galled  and  irri- 
tated with  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  went  on  in  no 
improved  humor: 

"  Mrs,  Dombey,  it  is  very  necessary  that  there  should 
be  some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your 
conduct  does  not  please  me.  madam." 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted 
her  eyes;  but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and 
expressed  less. 

"I  repeat,  Mrs.  Dombey,  does  not  please  me.  I  have 
already  taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  cor- 
rected.   I  now  insist  upon  it." 

"You  chose  a  fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remon- 
strance, sir,  and  you  adopt  a  fitting  manner,  and  a  fitting 
word  for  your  second.  Vou  insist!  Tome.'" 
.  "Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  most  offensive 
air  of  state.  "  I  have  made  vou  my  wife.  You  bear 
my  name.  You  are  associated  with  my  position  and  my 
reputation.  I  will  not  say  that  the  world  in  general 
may  be  disposed  to  think  you  honored  by  that  associa- 
tion; but  I  will  say  that  I  am  aoeustomed  to  '  insist,'  to 
my  connexions  and  dependents," 


136  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Which  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me?"  she 
asked. 

"  Possibly  I  may  think  that  my  wife  should  partake— 
or  does  partake,  and  cannot  help  herself — of  both  char 
acterB,  Mrs.  Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  her 
trembling  lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  tnrob,  and  saw 
her  face  nusn  and  turn  white.  All  this  he  could  know, 
and  did:  but  be  could  not  know  that  one  word  was 
whispering  in  the  deep  recesses  of  her  heart,  to  keep 
her  quiet;  and  that  the  word  was  Florence. 

Bhnd  idiot,  rushing  to  a  precipice!  He  thought  she 
stood  in  awe  of  him! 

"  You  are  too  expensive,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"You  are  extravagant.  You  waste  a  great  deal  of 
money— or  what  would  be  a  great  deal  in  the  pockets 
of  most  gentlemen — in  cultivating  a  kind  of  society 
that  is  useless  to  me,  and,  indeed,  that  upon  the  whole 
is  disagreeable  to  me.  I  have  to  insist  upon  a  total 
change  in  all  these  respects.  I  know  that  in  the  novelty 
of  possessing  a  tithe  of   such  means  as  fortune  has 

§  laced  at  your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt  to  run  into  a  sud- 
en  extreme.  There  has  been  more  than  enough  of  that 
extreme.  I  beg  that  Mrs.  Granger's  very  different 
experiences  may  now  come  to  the  instruction  of  Mrs. 
Dombey." 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing 
breast,  the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white;  and  stiU 
the  deep  whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  her  in 
the  beating  of  her  heart. 

His  insoknce  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw 
this  alteration  in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn 
of  him,  and  his  so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  than 
hy  her  present  submission  (as  he  took  it  to  be),  itoecame 
too  mighty  for  his  breast,  and  burst  all  bounds.  Why, 
who  could  long  resist  his  lofty  will  and  pleasure!  He 
had  resolved  to  conquer  her,  and  look  here! 

"You  will  further  please,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  atone  of  sovereign  command,  "to  understand  dis- 
tinctly, that  I  am  to  oe  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I 
must  nave  a  positive  show  and  confession  of  def erenc« 
before  the  world,  madam.  I  am  used  to  this.  I  reijuire 
it  as  my  right.  In  short  I  vrill  have  it.  I  consider  it  no 
unreasonable  retiu""  f'"'  the  worldly  advancement  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  13? 

has  befallen  you ;  and  I  believe  nobody  will  be  Burprised, 
either  at  its  being  required  from  you,  or  at  your  making 
it, — To  me — to  me!  "  he  added,  with  emphasis. 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  I  have  learnt  from  your  motlier,  Mrs.  Dombey," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magisterial  importance,  "  what 
no  doubt  you  know,  namelv,  that  Brighton  is  recom- 
mended for  her  health.  Mr,  Darker  has  been  so  good — " 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed 
as  if  the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flung 
upon  them.  Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  put- 
ting his  own  interpretation  upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  re- 
sumed : 

"  Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and  se- 
cure a  house  there,  for  a  time.  On  the  return  of  the  es- 
tablishment to  London,  I  shall  take  such  steps  for  its 
better  management  as  I  consider  necessary.  One  of 
these  will  be  the  engagement  at  Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be 
effected)  of  a  very  respectable  reduced  person  there,  a 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  formerly  employed  in  a  situation  of  trust 
in  my  family,  to  act  as  housekeeper.  An  establishment 
like  this,  presided  over  hut  nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey,  re- 
quires a  competent  head." 

She  had  changed  her  attitude  before  he  arrived  at 
these  words,  ananow  sat— still  looking  at  him  fixedly — 
turning  a  bracelet  round  and  round  upon  her  arm;  not 
winding  it  about  with  a  light  womanly  toiich,  but  press- 
ing and  dragging  it  over  the  smooth  skin,  until  the 
white  limb  showed  a  bar  of  red. 

"  I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey — "  and  this  concludes 
what  I  deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs. 
Dombey^I  observed  a  moment  ago,  madam,  that  my 
allusion  to  Mr.  Carker  was  received  in  a  peculiar 
manner.  On  the  occasion  of  my  happening  to  point  out 
to  you,  before  that  confidential  agent,  the  objection  I 
haa  to  your  mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you  were 
pleased  toobiect  to  his  presence.  You  will  have  to  get 
the  better  of  that  objection,  madam,  and  to  accustom 
yourself  to  it  very  probably  on  many  similar  occasions; 
unless  you  adopt  the  remedy  which  is  in  your  own 
hands,  of  giving  me  no  cause  of  complaint.  Mr.  Car- 
ker," said  Mr.  Dombey,  who,  after  the  emotion  he  haA 
just  seen,  set  great  store  by  this  means  oi  Teiuiivn^  Vv.'s. 


i:!3  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

proud  wife,  and  who  was  perhaps  suflSciently  Mrilling  to 
exhibit  his  power  to  that  gentleman  in  a  new  and  tri- 
umphant aspect,  "Mr.  Carker  being  in  my  confidence. 
Mrs.  Dombey,  may  very  well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  ex- 
tent. I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  continued,  after  a  few 
moments,  during  which,  iu  his  increasing  haughtiness, 
he  had  improved  on  his  idea,  "  I  may  not  find  it  neces- 
sary ever  to  intrust  Mr.  Carker  with  any  message  of  ob- 
jection or  remonstrance  to  you;  but  as  it  would  be  derog- 
atory to  my  position  and  reputation  to  be  frequently 
holding  trivirfl  disputes  with  a  lady  upon  whom  I  have 
conferred  the  highest  distinction  that  it  is  in  my  power 
to  bestow,  I  shall  not  scruple  to  avail  myself  of  ms  ser- 
vices if  I  see  occasion." 

'•  And  now,"  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  magnifi- 
cence, and  rising  a  stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man 
than  ever,  "  she  knows  me  and  my  resolution." 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with 
an  unaltered  face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Wait!    For  God's  sake!    I  must  speak  to  you." 

Why  did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle 
that  rendered  her  incapable  of  doing  so,  for  minutes, 
while,  in  the  strong  constraint  she  put  upon  her  face,  it 
was  as  fixed  as  any  statue's — looking  upon  him  with 
neither  yielding  nor  unyielding,  liking  nor  hatred,  pride 
nor  humility:  nothing  but  a  searching  gaze. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  band?  Did  I  ever 
use  any  art  to  win  you?  Was  I  ever  more  conciliating 
to  you  when  you  pursued  me  than  I  have  been  since 
our  marriage?    Was  I  ever  other  to  you  than  I  am?"    . 

"  It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "to  enter  upon  such  (iiscussions," 

"Did  you  thinlc  I  loved  j'ou?  Did  you  know  I  did 
not?  Did  you  ever  care,  man!  for  my  heart,  or  propose 
to  yourself  to  win  the  worthless  thing?  Was  there  any 
poor  pretence  of  any  in  our  bargain?  Upon  your  side, 
or  on  mine?" 

"These  questions,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "are  all  wide 
of  the  purpose,  madam." 

She  moved  between  him  and  the  door  to  prevent  his 
going  away,  and  drawing  her  majestic  figure  to  ite 
height,  looked  steadily  upon  him  still. 

"You  answer  each  of  them.     You  answer  me  before 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  139 

I  speak,  I  see.  How  can  you  help  it;  you  who  know 
the  miserable  truth  as  well  as  I?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I 
loved  you  to  devotion,  could  I  do  more  than  render  up 
my  whole  will  and  being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  de- 
manded? If  my  heart  were  pure  and  all  untried,  and 
you  its  idol,  could  you  ask  more;  could  you  have  more?" 

"Possibly  not,  madam,"  he  returned  coolly. 

"  You  know  how  different  I  am.  You  see  me  looking 
on  you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  piisBion 
for  you  that  is  breathing  in  my  face. "  Not  a  curl  of  the 
proud  lip,  not  a  flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the 
same  intent  and  searching  look,  accompanied  these 
words.  "You  know  my  general  history.  You  have 
spoken  of  my  mother.  Do  you  think  tou  can  degrade, 
or  bend  or  break,  me  to  submission  ana  obedience?" 

Mr.  Dombey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an 
inquiry  whether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand 
pounds. 

"If  there  is  anything  unusual  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did 
not  for  a  moment  flinch  from  its  immovable  and  other- 
wise expressionless  ^aze,  "aa  I  know  there  are  unusual 
feelings  here,"  ralsmg  the  hand  she  pressed  upon  her 
bosom,  and  heavily  returning  it,  "  consider  that  there  is 
DO  common  meaning  in  the  appeal  I  am  going  to  make 
you.  Yes,  for  I  am  going;"  she  said  it  as  in  prompt 
reply  to  something  in  nis  face;  "to  appeal  to  you," 

Mr,  Dombey,  with  a  slightly  condescending  bend  of 
his  chin  that  rustled  and  crackled  his  stiff  cravat,  sat 
down  on  a  sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 

"If  you  can  believe  that  I  am  of  such  a  nature  now," 
— h©  fancied  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  and  he 
thought,  complacently,  that  he  had  forced  them  from 
her,  though  none  fell  on  her  cheek,  and  she  regarded 
him  as  steadily  as  ever,^"as  would  make  what  I  now 
say  almost  incredible  to  myself,  said  to  any  man  who 
had  become  ray  husband,  but,  above  all.  said  to, you, 
you  may,  perhaps,  attach  the  greater  weight  to  it.  In 
the  dark  end  to  which  we  are  tending,  and  may  come, 
we  shall  not  involve  ourselves  alone  (that  might  not  be 
much),  but  others." 

Others!  He  knew  at  whom  that  word  pointed,  and 
frowned  heavily, 

"I  speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  otV»iTS,  t,  if>^^^l*^"*'' 


140  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

own  sake;  and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage,  you  have 
been  arrogant  to  me;  and  I  have  repaid  jou  in  kind. 
You  have  shown  to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every 
day  and  hour,  that  you  think  I  am  graced  and  distin- 
guislied  by  your  aUiance.  I  do  not  think  so,  and  have 
shown  tliat  too.  It  seems  you  do  not  understand,  or  (so 
far  as  j'our  power  can  go)  intend  that  each  of  us  shall 
take  a  separate  course ;  and  you  expect  from  me  instead, 
a  hom^e  you  will  never  have," 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  em- 
phatic confirmation  of  this  "  Never,"  in  the  very  breath 
she  drew, 

"I  feel  no  tenderness  towards  you;  that  you  know. 
You  would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  1  did  or  could.  I  know 
as  well  that  you  feel  none  towards  me.  But  we  are 
linked  together;  and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us.  as  I  have 
said,  others  are  bound  up.  We  must  both  die;  we  are 
both  connected  with  the  dead  already,  each  by  a  little 
child.     Let  us  forbear." 

Mr.  Dombey  took  a  long  respiration,  as  if  he  would 
have  said,  Oh!  was  this  all! 

"There  is  no  wealth,"  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as 
she  watched  him,  while  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous 
in  their  earnestness,  "that  could  buy  these  words  of 
me,  and  the  meaning  that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast 
away  as  idle  breath,  no  wealth  or  power  can  bring  them 
bacli.  I  mean  them;  I  have  weighed  them;  and  I  will 
be  true  to  what  I  undertake.  If  you  will  promise  to 
forbear  on  your  part,  I  will  promise  to  forbear  on  mine. 
We  are  a  most  unhappy  pair,  in  whom,  from  different 
causes,  every  sentiment  that  blesses  marriage,  or  justi- 
fies it,  is  rooted  out;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  some 
friendship,  or  some  fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  be- 
tween us.  I  will  try  to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the 
endeavor  too;  and  I  will  look  forward  to  a  better  and  a 
happier  use  of  age  than  I  have  made  of  youth  or  prime." 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a  low  plain  voice,  that 
neither  rose  nor  fell;  ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand 
with  which  she  had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless 
and  distinct,  but  not  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  so 
steadily  observed  him. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity, 
"I  cannot  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary 
nature. " 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  141 

She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 

"I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke, 
"consent  to  temporise  or  treat  with^ou,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
upon  a  subject  as  to  which  you  are  in  possession  of  my 
opinions  and  expectations,  I  have  stated  my  ultima- 
tum, madam,  and  have  only  to  request  your  very  se- 
rious attention  to  it." 

To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened 
in  intensity!  To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean 
and  odious  object!  To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty 
brow!  To  see  scorn,  anger,  indignation,  and  abnor- 
reuce  starting  into  light,  and  the  pjile  blank  earnestness 
vanish  like  a  mist!  He  could  not  choose  but  look,  al- 
though he  looked  to  his  dismay. 

"Go,  sir!"  she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
towards  the  door.  "Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at 
an  end.  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other 
than  we  are  henceforth." 

"I  shall  take  my  rightful  course,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general 
declamation." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and,  without  reply, 
sat  down  before  her  glass. 

"  I  place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty, 
and  more  correct  feeling,  and  better  reflexion,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

She  answered  not  one  word.  He  saw  no  more  expres- 
sion of  any  heed  to  him,  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he  had 
been  an  un.seen  spider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  the 
floor,  or  rather,  than  if  he  had  been  the  one  or  other, 
seen  and  crushed  when  she  last  turned  from  him,  and 
forgotten  among  the  ignominious  and  dead  vermin  of 
the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  upon  the 
well-lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glit- 
tering objects  everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith 
in  its  rich  dress  seated  before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of 
Edith  as  the  glass  presented  it  to  him;  and  he  betook 
himself  to  his  old  chamber  of  cogitation,  carrying  away 
with  him  a  vivid  picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these  things, 
and  a  rambling  and  unaccountable  speculation  {such  as 
sometimes  comes  into  a  man's  head)  how  they  would 
all  look  when  he  saw  them  next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  tac\tUYft.,a.Ti^N«t-s 


142  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

dignified,  and  very  confident  of  carrying  out  his  pur- 
pose; and  remained  bo. 

He  did  not  design  accoropanying  the  family  to  Brigh- 
ton; but  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at  breakfast, 
on  the  morning  of  departure,  -which  arrived  a  day  or 
two  afterwards,  that  he  might  be  expected  down,  soon. 
There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  getting  Cleopatra  to  any 
place  recommended  as  being  salutary;  for,  mdeed,  she 
seemed  upon  the  wane,  and  tummg  of  the  earth, 
earthy. 

Without  haying  undergone  any  decided  second  at- 
tack of  her  malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have 
crawled  backward  in  her  recovery  from  the  first.  She 
was  more  lean  and  shrunken,  more  uncertain  in  her  im- 
becility, and  made  stranger  confusions  in  her  mind  and 
memory.  Among  other  symptoms  of  this  last  afflic- 
tion, she  fell  into  the  habit  of  confounding  the  names 
of  her  two  sons-in-law,  the  living  and  the  deceased;  and 
in  general  called  Mr,  Dombey,  either  "Grangeby,"  or 
"  Domber,"  or  indifferently,  both. 

But  she  was  youthful,  very  youthful,  still;  and  in  her 
youthfulness  she  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going 
away,  in  a  new  bonnet,  made  express,  and  a  travelling 
robe  that  was  embroidered  and  braided  like  an  old 
baby's.  It  was  not  easy  to  put  her  into  a  fly-away  bon- 
net now,  or  to  keep  the  bonnet  in  its  place  on  the  back 
of  her  poor  nodding  head,  when  it  was  got  on.  In  this 
instance,  it  had  not  only  the  extraneous  effect  of  being 
always  on  one  side,  but  of  being  perpetually  tapped  on 
the  crown  by  Flowers  the  maid,  wno  attended  in  the 
background  during  breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

"Now  my  dearest  Grangeby,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
"  you  must  posively  prom,  she  cut  some  of  her  words 
short,  and  cut  out  others  altogether,  "come  down  very 
soon, 

"  I  said  just  now,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey, 
loudly,  and  laboriously,  "  that  I  am  coming  in  a  day  or 
two,' 

"  Bless  you,  Domber! " 

Here  the  major,  who  has  come  to  take  leave  of  the 
ladies,  and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  eyes 
at  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  compos- 
ure of  an  immortal  being,  said: 

"  Begad,  ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come!" 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  143 

"Sterious  wretch,  who's  he?"  lisped  Cleopatra.  But 
a  tap  on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her 
memory,  she  added,  "  Oh!  You  mean  yourself,  you 
naughty  creaturel" 

"Devihsh  queer,  sir,"  whispered  the  major  to  Mr. 
Dombey.  "Bad  case.  Never  did  wrap  up  enough;" 
the  major  being  buttoned  to  the  chin,  "  Why  who 
Rhould  J.  B.  mean  by  Joe,  but  old  Joe  Bagstock — Jo- 
seph— Your  slave — Joe,  ma'am?  Here!  Here's  the 
man!  Here  are  the  Bagstock  bellows,  ma'am!"  cried 
the  major,  striking  himself  a  sounding  blow  on  the 
chest. 

"My  dearest  E^th— Qrangeby— it's  most  trordinry 
thing,"  said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  "that  Major — " 

"Bagstock!  J.  Bl"  cried  the  major,  seeing  that  she 
faltered  for  his  name. 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "Edith,  my 
love,  you  know  I  never  could  remember  names — what 
was  it?  oh!— most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people 
want  come  down  see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long,  rm 
coming  back.     Surely  they  can  wait  till  I  come  back! " 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  she  said  it, 
and  appeared  very  uneasy. 

"I  won't  have  visitors — reallv  don't  want  visitors," 
she  said;  "little  repose — and  all  that  sort  of  thing — is 
w^hat  I  quire.  No  odious  brutes  must  proach  me  till 
I've  shaken  off  this  numbness; "  and  in  a  grisly  resump- 
tion of  her  coquettish  ways  she  made  a  dab  at  the 
major  with  her  fan,  but  overset  Mr,  Dorabey's  break- 
fast cup  instead,  which  was  in  quite  a  different  direc- 
tion. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see 
particularly  that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  alter- 
ations in  her  room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she 
came  back,  and  which  must  be  set  about  immediately, 
as  there  was  no  saying  how  soon  she  might  come  back; 
for  she  had  a  great  many  engagements,  and  all  sorts  of 
people  to  call  upon.  Withers  received  these  directions 
w^ith  becoming  deference,  and  gave  his  guarantee  for 
their  execution;  but  when  he  withdrew  a  pace  or  two 
behind  her,  it  appeared  as  if  he  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  the  major,  who  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  Mr.  Dombey,  who  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  Cleopatra,  who  couldn't  help  noddm^Vst 


IM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

bonnet  over  one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife  and  fork 
upon  her  plate  in  using  them  as  if  she  were  playing 
castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  any  face  at  the 
table,  and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  anything  her 
mother  said  or  did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  tallc. 
or  at  least,  turned  her  head  towards  her  when  ad- 
dressed; replied  in  a  few  low  words  when  necessary; 
and  sometimes  stopped  her  when  she  was  rambling,  or 
brought  her  thougnts  back  with  a  monosyllable  to  the 
point  from  which  they  had  strayed.  The  mother,  how- 
ever unsteady  in  other  things,  was  constant  in  this — 
that  she  was  always  observant  of  her.  She  would  look 
at  the  beautiful  face,  in  its  marble  stillnesB  and  sever- 
ity, now  with  a  kind  of  fearful  admiration;  now  in 
a  giggling  foolish  effort  to  move  it  to  a  smile;  now  with 
capricious  tears  and  jealous  shakings  of  her  head,  as 
imagining  herself  neglected  by  it;  always  with  an  at- 
traction towards  it  that  never  fluctuated  like  her  other 
ideas,  but  had  constant  possession  of  her.  From  Edith 
she  would  sometimes  loot  at  Florence,  and  back  again 
at  Edith,  in  a  manner  that  was  wild  enough;  and  some- 
times she  would  try  to  look  elsewhere,  as  if  to  escape 
from  her  daughter's  face;  but  back  to  it  she  seemed 
forced  to  come,  although  it  never  sought  hers  unless 
sought,  or  troubled  her  with  one  single  glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to 
lean  girlishly  upon  the  major's  arm,  but  heavilv  sup- 
ported on  the  other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and 
propped  up  behind  by  Withers  the  page,  was  conducted 
to  trie  carriage,  which  was  to  take  her,  Florence,  and 
Edith  to  Brighton. 

"And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished?"  qaid  the  major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  over  the  steps,  "  Damme, 
ma'am,  is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her 
faithful  Antony  Bagstock  to  approach  the  presence?" 

"  Go  along! '  said  Cleopatra,  "  I  can't  bear  you.  You 
shall  see  me  when  I  come  back,  if  you  are  very 
good." 

"  Tell  Joseph,  he  may  live  in  hope,  ma'am,"  said  the 
major;  "or  he'll  die  in  despair," 

Cleopatra  shuddered  and  leaned  back.  "  BMith,  my 
dear,"  she  said,     "  Tell  him — " 

"What?" 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  145 

"Such  dreadful  words,"  said  Cleopatra.  "He  uses 
such  dreadful  words! " 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on, 
and  left  the  objectionable  major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To 
whom  he  returned,  whistling. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  "  a 
fair  friend  of  ours  has  removed  to  Queer-street." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  major?"  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  Dombey,  returned  the  major,  "that 
you'll  soon  be  an  orphan-in-law." 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  descrip- 
tion of  himself  so  very  little  that  the  major  wound  up 
with  the  horse's  cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity, 

"Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "there  is  no  use  in 
disguising  a  fact.  Joe  is  blunt,  sir.  That's  his  nature. 
If  you  take  old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  find 
him;  and  a  de-vilish  rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a  close-toothed, 
J.  B,  file,  you  do  find  him.  Domoey,"  said  the  major, 
"  your  wife's  mother  is  on  the  move,  sir." 

"I  fear,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much  philoso- 
phy, "  that  Mrs,  Skewton  is  shaken," 

"Shaken,  Dombey!  "  said  the  major.     "Smashed!" 

"Change,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  at- 
tention may  do  much  yet." 

"Don't  believe  it,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "Damme, 
sir,  she  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a  man  don't 
wrap  up,"  said  the  major,  taking  in  another  button  of 
his  buCf  waistcoat,  "he  has  nothmg  to  f all  back  upon. 
But  some  people  will  die.  They  will  do  it  Damme, 
they  will.  They're  obstinate.  I  tell  you  what,  Dom- 
bey, it  may  not  be  ornamental;  it  may  not  be  refined; 
it  m^  be  rough  and  tough;  but  a  little  of  the  genuine 
old  English  Bagstock  stamina,  sir,  would  do  all  the 
good  in  the  world  to  the  human  breed." 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information, 
the  major,  who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other 
endowments  he  may  havepossessed  or  wanted,  coming 
within  the  "genuine  old  English  "  classification,  which 
has  never  been  exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster- 
eyes  and  his  apoplexy  to  the  club,  and  choked  there  all 
dav. 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-com- 
placent,  sometimes  awake,   sometimes    aaleev,  aX  '^ 


14G  nOMBEY  AND  SON. 

times  juvenile,  reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell 
to  pieces  as  usual,  aud  was  put  away  in  bed;  where  a 
gloomy  fancy  might  have  pictured  a  more  potent  skele- 
ton than  the  main  who  should  have  been  one,  watching 
at  the  rose-colored  curtains  which  were  carried  down 
to  shed  their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority 
that  she  should  take  a  carriage  airing  every  day,  and 
that  it  was  important  she  should  get  out  every  day  and 
walk  if  she  could.  Edith  was  ready  to  attend  Jier— al- 
■  ways  ready  to  attend  her,  with  the  same  mechanical 
attention  and  immovable  beauty — and  they  drove  out 
alone;  for  Edith  had  an  uneasiness  in  the  presence  of 
Florence,  now  that  her  mother  was  worse,  ajid  told 
Florence,  with  a  kiss,  that  she  would  rather  they  two 
went  alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  particular  day,  was  in  the  irreso- 
lute, exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed  itself 
on  her  recovery  from  her  first  attack.  After  sitting 
silent  in  the  carriage  watching  Edith  for  some  time, 
she  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately.  The  hand 
was  neither  given  nor  withdrawn,  but  simply  vielded 
to  her  raising  of  it  and,  being  released,  dropped  down 
again  almost  as  if  it  were  insensible.  At  tnis  she  be- 
gan to  whimper  and  moan,  and  say  what  a  mother  she 
had  been  and  how  she  was  forgotten!  This  she  con- 
tinued to  do  at  capricious  intervals,  even  when  they  had 
alighted;  when  she  herself  was  halting  along  with  the 
joint  support  of  Withers  and  a  stick,  and  Edith  was 
walking  by  her  side,  and  the  carritige  slowly  following 
at  a  little  distance. 

It  was  a  bleak,  lowering,  windy  day,  and  they  were 
out  upon  the  Downs  with  nothing  but  a  bare  sweep  of 
land  between  them  and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a 
querulous  satisfaction  in  the  monotony  of  her  com- 
plaint, was  still  repeating  it  in  a  low  voice  from  time  to 
time,  and  the  proud  form  of  her  daughter  moved  beside 
her  slowly,  when  there  came  advancing  over  a  dark 
ridge  before  them  two  other  figures,  which  in  the  dis- 
tance were  so  like  an  exaggerated  imitation  of  their 
own  that  Edith  stepped. 

Almost  as  she  stopped  the  two  figures  stepped;  and 
that  one  which  to  Edith's  thinking  was  like  a  aisterted 
shadow  of  her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other  earnestly,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  14? 

with  a  pointing  hand  towards  them.  That  one  seemed 
inclined  to  turn  back,  but  the  other,  in  which  Edith 
recognised  enough  that  was  hke  herself  to  strike  her 
with  an  unusual  feeling,  not  quite  free  from  fear,  came 
on ;  and  then  they  came  on  together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation  she  made  while 
walking  towards  them,  for  her  stoppage  had  been  mo- 
mentary. Nearer  observation  showed  her  that  they 
were  poorly  dressed,  as  wanderers  about  the  country ; 
that  the  younger  woman  carried  knitted  work  or  some 
such  goods  for  sale;  and  that  the  old  one  toiled  on  empty- 
handed. 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in 
dignity,  in  beauty,  Edith  could  not  but  compare  the 
younger  woman  with  herself,  still.  It  may  have  been 
that  she  saw  upon  her  face  some  traces  which  she  knew 
were  lingering  in  her  own  soul,  if  not  yet  written  on 
that  index;  hut,  as  the  woman  came  on,  returning  her 
gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  her,  undoubtedly 
presenting  something  of  her  own  air  and  stature,  and 
appearing  to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  she  felt  a 
chiil  creep  over  her,  as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and 
the  wind  were  colder. 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out 
her  hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton.  The  younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith 
looked  in  one  another's. eyes. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  have  to  sell? "  said  Edith. 

"  Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  her 
wareSjWithout  looking  at  them.  "I  sold  myself  long  ago. " 

■'  My  lady,  don't  believe  her,''  croaked  the  old  woman 
to  Mrs.  Skewton;  "don't  believe  what  she  says.  She 
loves  to  talk  like  that.  She's  my  handsome  and  undu- 
tiful  daughter.  She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches, 
my  lady,  for  all  I  have  done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now, 
my  ladv,  how  she  turns  upon  her  poor  old  mother  with 
her  I00K8." 

As  Mrs  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a  trembling 
hand,  and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the 
other  old  woman  greedily  watched  for — thrir  heads  all 
but  touching  in  their  hurry  and  decrepitude — Edith 
interposed : 

"  I  have  seen  you,"  addressing  the  old  woman, 
"  before." 


148  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  with  a  curtsey.  "  Down  in  War- 
wickshire. The  morning  among  the  trees.  When  you 
wouldn't  give  me  nothing.  But  the  gentleman,  he  give 
me  something,  O,  bless  nim,  bless  him!  "  mumbled  the 
oM  woman,  holding  up  her  skinny  hand,  and  grinning 
frightfully  at  her  daughter, 

"It's  of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edith!"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  angrily  anticipatiug  an  objection  from 
her.  "You  know  nothing  aboui  it.  I  won't  be  dis- 
suaded. I  am  sure  this  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a 
good  mother." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  yes,"  chattered  the  old  woman,  hold- 
ing out  her  avancious  hand.  "  Thankee,  my  lady. 
Lord  bless  you,  my  lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty 
lady,  as  a  good  mother  yourself!" 

*'  And  treated  undutifuliy  enough  too,  my  good  old 
creature,  sometimes,  I  assure  you,  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
whimpering.  "  There!  Shake  hands  with  me.  You're 
a  very  good  old  creature — full  of  what's-his-name — and 
all  that.    You're  all  affection  and  et  cetera,  an't  you?" 

"  Oh  yes,  my  lady! " 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are;  and  so's  that  gentlemanly 
creature  Grangeby.  I  must  really  shake  bands  with 
you  again.  And  now  you  can  go,  you  know;  and  I 
hope,"  addressing  the  daughter,  "  that  youll  showrmore 
gratitude,  and  natural  what's-its-name,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it— for  I  never  did  remember  names — for  there  never 
was  a  better  mother  than  the  good  old  creature's  been 
to  you.     Come,  Edith!  " 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering,  and 
wiping  its  eyes  with  a  gingerly  remembrance  of  rouge 
in  their  neignborhood,  the  old  woman  hobbled  another 
way,  mumbling  and  counting  her  money.  Not  one 
word  more,  nor  one  other  gesture,  had  been  exchanged 
between  Edith  and  the  younger  woman,  but  neither 
had  removed  her  eyes  from  the  other  for  a  moment. 
They  had  remained  confronted  until  now,  when  Edith, 
as  awakening  from  a  dream,  passed  slowly  on, 

"  You're  a  nandsome  woman,"  muttered  her  shadow, 
looking  after  her;  "  but  good  looks  won't  save  us.  And 
you're  a  proud  woman;  hut  pride  won't  save  us.  We 
had  need  to  know  each  other  when  we  meet  again! " 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  149 

CHAPTER  XL 

NBW  VOICES  IN  THE  WAVES. 

Ali,  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are 
hoarse  with  repetition  of  their  mystery:  the  dust  lies 
piled  upon  the  shore;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover;  the 
winds  and  clouds  go  forth  upon  their  trackless  flight; 
the  white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisi- 
ble country  far  away. 

With  a  tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence  finds 
herself  again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so 
happily,  and  thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place  where  he 
and  she  have  many  and  many  a  time  conversed  to- 
gether, with  the  water  welling  up  about  his  couch. 
And  now,  as  she  sits  pensive  there,  she  hears  in  the  wild 
low  murmur  of  the  sea  his  little  story  told  again,  his 
very  words  repeated;  and  finds  that  all  her  life  and 
hopes,  and  griefs,  since — in  the  solitary  house,  and  in 
the  pageant  it  has  changed  to — have  a  portion  in  the 
burden  of  the  marvellous  song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a  distance, 
looking  wistfully  towards  the  figure  that  he  dotes  upon, 
and  has  followed  there,  but  cannot  in  his  delicacy  dis- 
turb at  such  a  time,  likewise  hears  the  requiem  of  little 
Dombey  on  the  waters,  rising  and  falling  in  the  lulls' of 
their  eternal  madrigal  in  praise  of  Florence.  Yes!  and 
he  faintly  understands,  poor  Mr.  Toots,  that  they  are 
saying  something  of  a  time  when  he  was  sensible  of 
being  Drighter  and  not  addle-brained;  and  the  tears  ris- 
ing in  his  eyes  when  he  fears  that  he  is  dull  and  stupid 
now,  and  good  for  little  but  to  be  laughed  at,  diminish 
his  satisfaction  in  their  soothing  reminder  that  he  is  re- 
lieved from  present  responsibility  to  the  Chicken  by  the 
absence  of  that  game  head  of  poultry  in  the  country, 
training  (at  Toots's  cost)  for  his  great  mill  with  the 
Larkey  Boy. 

But  Mr.  Toots  takes  courage,  when  they  whisper  a 
kind  thought  to  him;  and  by  slow  degrees  and  with 
many  indecisive  stoppages  on  the  way  approaches 
Florence,  Stammering  and  blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects 
amazement  when  he  comes  near  her,  and  says  (ha-vvaa 
followed  close  on  the  carriage  inwVi\c\i  ¥i\ve  \>w)^'a"i. 


160  DOMEEY  AND  SON. 

every  inch  of  the  way  from  London,  loving  even  to  be 
choked  by  the  dust  of  its  wheels)  that  he  never  was  so 
surprised  in  lall  his  life. 

"And  you've  brought  Diogenes  too.  Miss  Dombey!" 
says  Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the 
touch  of  the  small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given 
him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Toots 
has  reason  to  observe  him,  for  he  comes  straightway  at 
Mr.  Toota's  legs,  and  tumbles  over  liimself  in  the  des- 
peration with  which  he  makes  at  him,  like  a  very  dog 
of  Montargis.     But  he  is  checked  by  his  sweet  mistress. 

"Down,  Di,  down.  Don't  you  remember  who  first 
made  us  friends,  Di?    For  shame! " 

Oh!  Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  against  her 
hand,  and  run  ofif,  and  run  back,  and  run  round  her, 
barking,  and  run  headlong  at  anybody  coming  by,  to 
show  his  devotion.  Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong  at 
anybody  too.  A  military  gentleman  goes  past,  and 
Mr.  Toots  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  run  at  him, 
full  tilt. 

"Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  he.  Miss 
Dombey  P"  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "beg  your  pardon, 
but  if  you  would  like  to  walk  to  Blimber's,  I — I'm  going 
th^e.'^ 

Florence  puts  her  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without  a 
word,  and  they  walk  away  together,  with  Diogenes  go- 
ing on  before.  Mr.  Toots's  legs  shake  under  him;  and 
though  he  is  splendidly  dressed  he  feels  misfits,  and 
sees  wrinkles  in  the  masterpieces  of  Burgess  and  Co., 
and  wishes  he  had  put  on  that  brightest  pair  of  boots. 

Doctor  Blimber's  nouse,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
studious  an  air  as  ever;  and  up  there  is  the  window 
where  she  used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where  the 

fiale  face  brightened  when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted 
ittle  hand  waved  kisses  as  she  passed.  The  door  is  . 
opened  by  the  same  weak-eyed  young  man,  whose  im- 
becility of  grin  at  sight  of  Mr.  Toots  is  feebleness  of 
character  personified.  They  are  shown  into  the  doctor's 
study,  where  blind  Homer  and  Minerva  give  them 
audience  as  of  yore  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  great 
clock  in  the  hall;  and  where  the  globes  stand  stul  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  151 

their  accuBtomed  places,  as  if  the  world  were  stationary 
too,  and  nothing  in  it  ever  perished  in  obedience  to  the 
universal  law,  that,  while  it  keeps  it  on  the  roll,  calls 
everything  to  earth. 

And  here  is  Doctor  Blimiber,  with  his  learned  legs; 
and  here  is  Mrs.  Qltmber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap;  and 
here  is  Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and 
her  bright  spectacles,  still  working  like  a  sexton  in  the 
graves  of  languages.  Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he 
sat  forlorn  and  strange,  the  "new  boy  "  of  the  school; 
and  hither  comes  the  distant  cooing  of  the  old  boys,  at 
their  old  lives  in  the  old  room  on  the  old  principle! 

"Toots!"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 

"  Also  to  see  you.  Toots,  in  such  good  company,"  says 
Doctor  Blimber, 

Mr.  Toots,  with  a  scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  has 
met  Miss  Dombey  by  accident,  and  tnat  Miss  Dombey 
wishing,  like  himself,  to  see  the  old  place,  they  have 
come  together.     • 

"You  will  like,"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "to  step  among 
our  young  friends.  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.  All  fellow- 
students  of  yours.  Toots,  once.  I  think  we  have  no 
new  disciples  in  our  little  portico,  my  dear,"  says  Doc- 
tor Blimber  to  Cornelia.  "  smce  Mr.  Toots  left  us." 

"  Except  Bitherstone,"  returns  Cornelia. 

"Ay,  truly,"  says  the  doctor.  "Bitherstone  is  new 
to  Mr,  Toots." 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost;  for  in  the  school-room, 
Bitherstone— no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin's — shows  in  collars  and  a  neckcloth,  and  wears 
a  watch.  But  Bitherstone,  born  beneath  some  Bengal 
star  of  ill-omen,  is  extremely  inky;  and  his  lexicon  has 
got  so  dropsical  from  constant  reference  that  it  won't 
shut,  and  yawns  as  if  it  really  could  not  bear  to  be  so 
bothered.  So  does  Bitherstone  its  master,  forced  at 
Doctor  Bhmber's  highest  pressure;  but  in  the  yawn  of 
Bitherstone  there  is  malice  and  snarl,  and  he  has  been' 
heard  to  say  that  he  wishes  he  could  catch  "Old  Blim- 
ber "  in  India.  He'd  precious  soon  find  himself  carried 
up  the  country  by  a  tew  of  his  (Bitherstone's)  coolies 
and  handed  over  to  the  Thugs;  he  can  tell  him  that, 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  miVV  oi  ^txvo'wXei^fe',  %sA. 


152  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Toser  too;  and  Jolinson  too;  and  all  the  rest;  the  older 
pupils  being  principally  engaged '  in  forgetting,  with 
prodigious  labor,  everything  they  knew  when  they  were 
younger.  All  are  as  polite  and  pale  as  ever:  and  among 
them,  Mr.  Feeder,  B,A.,  with  his  bony  hand  and  bristly 
head,  is  still  hard  at  it:  with  his  Herodotus  stop  on  just 
at  present,  and  his  other  barrels  on  a  shelf  behind 
him. 

A  mighty  sensation  is  created  even  among  these 
grave  young  gentlemen  by  a  visit  from  the  emancipa- 
ted Tt>ot8;  who  is  regarded  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  one 
who  has  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  is  pledged  never  to 
come  back,  and  concerning  the  cut  of  whose  clothes, 
and  fashion  of  whose  jewelry,  whispers  ^  about,  be- 
liind  hunds;  the  bilious  Bitberstone.  who  is  not  of  Mr. 
Toots's  time,  affecting  to  despise  the  latter  to  the  smaller 
boys,  and  saying  he  knows  better,  and  that  he  should 
like  to  see  him  coming  that  sort  of  thing  in  Bengal, 
where  his  mother  has  got  an  emerald  belonging  to  him 
that  was  taken  out  of  a  footstool  of  a  rajah.  Come 
now! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sight 
of  Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  imme- 
diately falls  in  love,  again;  except,  as  aforesaid,  the 
bilious  Bitherstone,  who  declines  to  do  so,  out  of  con- 
tradiction. Black  jealousies  of  Mr.  Toots  arise,  and 
Briggs  is  of  opinion  that  he  an't  so  very  old  after  all. 
But  this  disparaging  insinuation  is  speedily  made 
naught  by  Mr.  Toots  saying  aloud  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B,  A,, 
"  How  are  you,  Feeder?  "  and  asking  him  to  come  and 
dine  with  him  to-day  at  the  Bedford;  in  right  of  which 
feats  he  might  set  up  as  Old  Parr,  if  he  chose,  unques- 
tioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands,  and  much  bowing, 
and  a  great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentle- 
men to  take  Toots  down  in  Miss  Dombey's  good  graces; 
and  then,  Mr.  Toots  having  bestowed  a  chuckle  on  his 
old  desk,  Florence  and  he  withdraw  with  Mrs.  Blimbcr 
and  Cornelia;  and  Doctor  Blimber  is  beard  to  observe 
behiud  them  as  he  comes  out  last  and  shuts  the  door, 
"Geotlemen.  we  will  now  resume  our  studies."  For 
that  and  little  else  is  what  the  doctor  hears  the  sea  say. 
or  has  heard  it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  stefus  away  and  goes  up-stairs  to  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  153 

old  bed-room  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia:  Mr. 
Toots,  who  feels  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  is 
wanted  there,  stands  talking  to  the  doctor  at  the  study- 
door,  or  rather  hearing  the  doctor  talk  to  him,  and  won- 
dering how  he  ever  thought  the  study  a  great  sanctuary, 
and  the  doctor,  with  his  round  turned  legs,  like  a  clerical 
pianoforte,  an  awful  man.  Florence  soon  comes  down 
and  takes  leave;  Mr.  Toots  takes  leave;  and  Diogenes, 
who  has  been  worrying  the  weak-eyed  young  man  piti- 
lessly all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and  barks  a 
glad  defiance  down  the  cliff;  while  'Melia,  and  another 
of  the  doctor's  female  domestics,  look  out  of  an  upper 
window,  laughing  "  at  that  there  Toots,"  and  saying  of 
Miss  Dombey,  "  But  really  though,  now — ain't  she  like 
her  brother,  only  prettier?  " 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that 
there  were  tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious 
and  uneasy,  and  at  first  fears  that  he  did  wrong  in  pro- 
posing the  visit.  But  he  is  soon  relieved  by  her  saying 
she  is  very  glad  to  have  been  there  again,  and  by  her 
talking  quite  cheerfully  about  it  all,  as  they  walked  on 
by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices  there,  and  her  sweet 
voice,  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  and 
Mr.  Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so  enslaved  that  he  has 
not  a  scrap  of  free-will  left;  when  she  gives  him  her 
hand  at  parting,  he  cannot  let  it  go. 

"Miss  Dombey,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Toots, 
in  a  sad  flustet,  "  but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — to — " 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings 
him  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider 
it  a  liberty,  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  to — without  any  en- 
couragement at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  know,"  says 
Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr,  Toots,  who  feels  that  he  is 
in  for  it  now,  "  I  really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration  of 
you  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  am 
the  most  deplorable  wretch.  If  it  wasn't  at  the  corner 
of  the  square  at  present,  I  should  go  down  on  my  knees, 
and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  without  any  encouragement 
at  all,  ]UBt  to  let  me  hope  that  I  may — may  think  it  pos- 
sible that  you — " 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  don't'"    cries  F\oT«Rce.,  \«iT  SXv'a 


154  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

moDieot  quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  "  Oh,  pray  don't 
Mr.  Toots.  Stop,  if  you  please.  Don't  say  any  more. 
As  a  kindness  and  a  favor  to  me,  don't." 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  says  Florence,  "1 
am  BO  grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you 
for  being  a  kind  friend  to  me,  and  I  do  likeyouso  mucn; " 
and  here  the  ingenuous  face  smiles  upon  him  with  the 
pleasantest  Iook  of  honesty  in  the  world;  "that  I  am 
sure  you  are  only  going  to  say  good  by! " 

"Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  *•  I— I — 
that's  exactly  what  I  mean.    It's  of  no  consequence." 

"  Good  by! "  cries  Florence. 

"Good  by.  Miss  Dombey!"  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  "  I 
hope  you  won't  think  anything  about  it.  It's — it's  of  no 
consequence,  thank  you.  It's  not  of  the  least  conse- 
quence in  the  world. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  goes  home  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of 
desperation,  locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  him- 
self upon  his  bed,  and  lies  there  for  a  long  time;  as  if  it 
were  of  the  greatest  consequence,  nevertheless.  But 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  is  coming  to  dinner,  which  happens 
well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or  there  is  no  knowing  when  he 
might  get  up  again.  Mr.  Toots  is  obliged  to  ^et  up  to 
receive  nim,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertamment. 

And  the  generous  influence  of  that  social  virtue,  hos- 
pitality (to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer), 
opens  Mr.  Toots's  heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversation. 
He  does  not  tell  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  what  passed  at  the 
comer  of  the  square;  but  when  Mr,  Feeder  asks  him 
"  When  it  is  to  come  oif  ? "'  Mr,  Toots  replies,  "  that  there 
are  certain  subjects  " — which  brings  M!r.  Feeder  down  a 
peg  or  two  immediately.  Mr.  Toots  adds,  that  he  don't 
know  what  right  Blimber  had  to  notice  his  being  in 
Miss  Dombey's  company,  and  that  if  he  thought  he 
meant  irapuaence  by  it,  ne'd  have  him  out,  doctor  or  no 
doctor;  but  lie  supposes  it's  only  his  ignorance.  Mr. 
Feeder  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not  ex- 
cluded from  the  subject.  Mr.  Toots  merely  requires  that 
it  should  he  mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feeling. 
After  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dombey  s 
health,  observing,  "  Feeder,  you  have  no  idea  of  the 
sentiments  with  which  1  propose  that  toast."  Mr.  Feeder 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  165 

replies,  "  Ob  yes  I  have,  mv  dear  Toots:  and  greatly  they 
redound  to  your  honor,  old  boy."  Mr.  Feeder  is  then 
agitated  hy  frieudsbip,  and  shakes  hands  and  saye,  if 
ever  Toots  wants  a  brother  he  knows  where  to  find  him, 
either  by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  likewise  s^s,  that 
if  he  may  advise,  he  would  recommend  Mr.  Toots  to 
learo  the  guitar,  or,  at  least,  the  flute;  for  women  like 
music  when  you  are  paying  your  addresses  to  'em,  and 
he  has  found  the  advantage  of  it  himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  to  the  confession  that 
he  has  his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr, 
Toots  that  he  don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the 
doctor  were  to  do  the  handsome  thing  and  give  up  the 
business,  why,  there  they  are — provided  for.  He  says 
it's  his  opinion  that  when  a  man  has  made  a  handsome 
sum  by  nis  business,  be  is  bound  to  give  it  up;  and  that 
Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any  man 
might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching 
w^ildly  out  into  Miss  Dombej''s  praises,  and  by  insinua- 
tions that  sometimes  he  thmks  he  should  like  to  blow 
his  brains  out.  Mr.  Feeder  strongly  urges  that  it  would 
be  a  rash  attempt,  and  shows  him,  as  a  reconcilement  to 
existence,  Cornelia's  portrait,  spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  evening;  and  when 
it  has  yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home  with 
Mr,  Feeder,  and  parts  with  him  at  Doctor  Blimber'e 
door.  But  Mr.  Feeder  only  goes  up  the  steps,  and  when 
Mr.  Toots  is  gone,  comes  down  again  to  stroll  upon  the 
beach  alone,  and  think  about  his  prospects.  Mr.  Feeder 
plainly  hears  the  waves  informmg  Mm,  as  he  loiters 
along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will  give  up  the  business; 
and  ne  feels  a  soft  romantic  pleasure  in  looking  at  the 
outside  of  the  bouse,  and  thinking  that  the  doctor  will 
first  paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  repair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside 
the  casket  that  contains  his  jewel;  and  in  a  deplorable 
condition  of  mind,  and  not  unsuspected  by  the  police, 

gazes  at  a  window  where  he  sees  a  light,  and  which  he 
as  no  doubt  is  Florence's.  But  it  is  not,  for  that  is  Mrs. 
Skewton's  room ;  and  while  Florence,  sleeping  in  another 
cbamber,  dreams  lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  the  old  scenes, 
and  their  old  associations  live  again,  the  figure  which 
in  grim  reality  is  substituted  for  the  patient  boy's  on.tW 
same  theatre,  once  more  to  coimeeti  \\i— \>\A  \yy«  Ksffi.^^- 


156  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ently! — with  decay  and  death,  is  stretched  there,  wakeful 
and  complaining.  Ugly  and  haggard  it  lies  uijon  its 
bed  of  unrest,  and  by  it,  in  the  terror  of  her  unimpas- 
eioned  loveliness — for  it  has  terror  in  the  sufferer's  fail- 
ing eyes— sits  Edith.  What  do  the  waves  say,  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night  to  them? 

"  Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me? 
Don't  you  see  it? " 

'■'  There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

"But  my  fancy!  Eveirthing  is  my  fancy.  Look! 
Is  it  possible  that  you  don  t  see  itl " 

"Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I  sit  un- 
moved if  there  were  any  such  thing  there?" 

"Unmoved!"  looking  wildly  at  her — "it's  gone  now 
— and  why  are  you  so  unmoved?  That  is  not  my  fancy, 
Edith.     It  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  sitting  at  my  side." 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother." 

"Sorry!  You  seem  always  sorry.  But  it  is  not  for 
me! " 

With  that  she  cries;  and  tossing  her  restless  head 
from  side  to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neglect, 
and  the  mother  she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the  good 
old  creature  was,  whom  they  met,  and  the  cold  return 
the  daughters  of  such  motliers  make.  In  the  midst  of 
her  incoherence,  she  stops,  looks  at  her  daughter,  cries 
out  that  her  wits  are  going,  and  hides  her  face  upon 
the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to 
her.  The  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck 
and  says,  witli  a  look  of  horror, 

"  Edith!  we  are  going  home  soon;  going  back.     You 
mean  that  I  shall  go  home  again?  " 
■  Yea,  mother,  yes." 

"  And  what  he  said — what's  his  name,  I  never  could 
remember  names — major — that  dreadful  word,  when  we 
came  away — it's  not  true?  Edith!"  with  a  shriek  and  a 
stare,  "  it's  not  thai  that  is  the  matter  with  me." 

Ni^ht  after  night  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and 
the  hgure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it,  and 
the  restless  waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the  whole 
ni^ht  long.  Night  after  night  the  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery;  the  dust  lies  piled  upon 
the  shore;  tlie  sea-birds  soar  and  hover:  the  winds  iind 
clouds  are  on   their   trackless  flight;    the  whit*?   arms 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  167 

beckon,  in  the  motmlight,  to.  the  invisible  country  far 
away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  comer,  where 
the  stone  arm — part  of  a  figure  of  some  tomb,  she  says 
— is  raised  to  strike  her.  At  last  it  falls:  and  then  a 
dumb  old  woman  liee  upon  the  bed,  and  sne  is  crooked 
and  shrunk  up,  and  half  of  her  Ib  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  Bun  to 
mock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  through  the  crowd  from  day 
to  day;  looking,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature 
who  was  such  a  mother,  and  making  mouths  as  it  peers 
among  the  crowd  in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  is 
often  wheeled  down  to  the  margin  of  tne  sea  and 
stationed  there;  but  on  which  no  wind  can  blow  fresh- 
ness, and  for  which  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  ha£  no 
soothing  word.  She  lies  and  listens  to  it  by  the  hour; 
but  its  speech  is  dark  and  gloomy  to  her,  and  a  dread  is 
on  her  face,  and  when  her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse 
they  see  but  a  broad  stretch  of  desolation  between  earth 
and  heaven, 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry 
with  and  mows  at.  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and 
keeps  Florence  away;  and  Florence  in  her  bed  at  night 
trembles  at  the  thought  of  death  in  such  a  shape,  and 
often  wakes  and  listens,  thinking  it  has  come.  No  one 
attends  on  her  but  Edith,  It  is  better  that  few  eyes 
should  see  her;  and  her  daughter  watches  alone  by  the 
bedside. 

A  Bhadow  even  on  that  Bhadowed  face,  a  sharpening 
even  of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a  thickening  of  the 
veil  before  the  eyes  into  a  pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim 
world,  is  come.  Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  coverlet 
join  feebly  palm  to  palm,  and  move  towards  her  daughter; 
and  a  voice  not  like  here,  not  like  any  voice  that  Bpeaks 
our  mortal  language — says  "For  I  nursed  youl" 

Edith,  without  a  tear,  kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice 
closer  to  the  sinking  head,  and  answers: 

"  Mother,  can  you  hear  me?  " 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

"Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I  married?" 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  expresses  somehow  that 
she  does.  "  • 

"  I  told  you  then  that  I  forgave  your  part  in  it,  and 
prayed  God  to  forgive  my  own,    I  told  ■you  XXiaS.^Jafe^^^a'^ 


158  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

was  at  an  end  between  us.  I  say  so  now,  again.  Kiss 
me,  mother." 

£dith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a  momeDt  all  is 
still.  A  moment  afterwards,  her  mother,  with  her  girlish 
laugh,  and  the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner,  rises 
in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  ros&-colored  curtains.  There  is  something 
else  upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw 
the  rose-colored  curtains  close! 

Intelligence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in 
town,  who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  for  Baden-Baden),  who  has  just 
received  it  too.  A  good-natured  creature  like  Cousin 
Feenix  is  the  very  man  for  a  marriage  or  a  funeral,  and 
his  i>08ition  in  the  family  renders  it  right  that  he  should 
be  consulted. 

"Dombey,"  says  Cousin  Feenix, "upon  my  soul,  I  am 
very  much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a  melancholy 
occasion.  My  poor  aunt!  She  was  a  devilish  lively 
woman." 

Mr.  Dombey  replies."  Very  much  so." 

"And  made  up,"  says  Cousin  Feenix, "really young, 
you  know,  considering.  I  am  sure,  on  the  day  of  your 
marriage.  I  thought  she  was  good  for  another  twenty 
years.  In  point  of  fact.  I  said  so  to  a  man  at  Brooks  s 
— little  Billy  Joper — you  know  him,  no  doubt — man  with 
a  glass  in  his  eye? "' 

Mr.  Dombey  bows  a  negative.  "In  reference  to  the 
obsequies."  he  hints, "  whether  there  is  any  suggestion —  " 

■■Well,  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking 
his  chin,  wliich  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below^  his 
wristbands  to  do;  ■"1  really  dont  know.  There's  a 
Mausoleum  down  at  my  place,  in  the  park,  but  I'm 
afraid  it's  in  bad  repair,  and.  in  point  of  fact,  in  a  devil 
of  a  state.  But  for  being  a  little  out  at  elbows  I  should 
have  put  it  to  rights:  but  I  believe  the  people  come  and 
make  picnic  parties  there  inside  the  iron  railings." 

Mr.  Dombey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

"There's  an  uncommon  good  church  in  the  village," 
says  Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully;  "pure  specimen  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  style  and  admirably  well  sketched 
too  by  Lady  Jane  Finchburv*-woman  with  tight  stays 
— but  thevVe  spoilt  it  with  wbitewash,  I  understand, 
and  it's  a  long  journey." 

Digilizcdt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  150 

"Perhaps  Brighton  itself,''  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Dombey,  I  don't  think  we  could  do 
better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  It's  on  the  spot,  you  see, 
and  a  very  cheerful  place." 

"And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,"would  it  be  con- 
venient?" 

"I  shall  mak^a  point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,"of  pledg- 
ing myself  for  any  day  you  think  best,  I  shall  have 
great  pleasure  (melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in  fol- 
lowing my  poor  aunt  to  the  confines  of  the m  point 

of  fact,  to  the  grave,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  failing  in  the 
other  turn  of  speech. 

"Would  Monday  do  for  leaving  town?"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection,"  replies  Cousin 
Feenix.  Tneref  ore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  bis  leave, 
attended  to  the  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  at 
parting,  "I'm  really  excessively  sorry,  Dombey,  that 
you  should  have  so  much  trouble  about  it;"  to  which 
Mr.  Dombey  answers,  "  Not  at  all." 

At  the  appointed  time.  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  Dombey 
meet,  and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing,  in 
their  two  selves,  all  the  other  mourners  for  the  deceased 
lady's  loss,  attend  her  remains  to  their  place  of  rest. 
Cousin  Feenix,  sitting  in  the  mourning-coach,  recog- 
nises innumerable  acquaintances  on  the  road,  but  takes 
no  other  notice  of  tnem,  in  decorum,  than  checking 
them  off  aloud,  as  they  go  by,  for  Mr.  Dombey's  infor- 
mation, as  "Tom  Johnson.  Man  with  cork  leg,  from 
White's,  What  are  you  here.  Tommy?  Foley  on  a 
blood  mare.  The  Smalder  girls"— and  so  forth.  At  the 
ceremony  Cousin  Feenix  is  depressed,  observing,  that 
these  are  the  occasions  to  make  a  man  think,  in  point 
of  fact,  that  he  is  getting  shaky;  and  his  eyes  are  really 
moistened  when  it  is  over.  But  he  soon  recovers;  and 
so  do  the  rest  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  relatives  and  friends, 
of  whom  the  major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she 
never  did  wrap  up  enough;  while  the  young  lady  with 
the  back,  who  has  so  much  trouble  with  her  eyelids, 
says,  with  a  little  scream,  that  she  must  have  been 
enormously  old,  and  that  she  died  of  all  kinds  of  hor- 
rors, and  you  mustn't  mention  it. 

So  Edith's  mother  lies  unmentioned  ol  tet  4ea.x  Vncu?i.*!i, 


160  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

who  are  deaf  to  the  waves  that  are  hoarse  with  rei>eti- 
tioa  of  their  mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled 
upon  the  shore,  ana  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckon- 
ing in  the  moonlight  to  the  invisible  country  far  away, 
But  all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin  of  the 
unknown  sea;  and  Edith  standing  there  alone,  and  list- 
ening to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  her  feet, 
to  strew  her  path  in  life  withal. 


CHAPTEB  XII. 

CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL. 

Attibed  do  more  in  Captain  Cuttle's  sable  slops  SDd 
sou'wester  hat,  but  dressed  in  a  substantial  suit  of 
brown  livery,  which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a  very  sober 
and  demure  livery  indeed,  was  really  as  self-satisfied 
and  confident  a  one  as  tailor  need  desire  to  make,  Rob 
the  Grinder,  thus  transformed  as  to  his  outer  man,  and 
all  regardless  within  of  the  captain  and  the  Midship- 
man, except  when  he  devoted  a  few  minutes  of  his  leis- 
ure time  to  crowing  over  those  inseparable  worthies, 
and  recalling,  with  much  applauding  music  from  that 
brazen  instrument,  his  conscience,  the  triumphant  man- 
ner in  which  he  had  disembarrassed  himself  of  their 
company,  now  served  his  patron,  Mr.  Carker,  Inmate 
of  Mr,  Carker's  ■  house,  and  serving  about  his  person. 
Rob  kept  his  round  eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with  fear 
and  trembling,  and  felt  that  he  had  need  to  open  them 
wider  than  ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole 
being,  before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the 
service  of  some  powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been 
his  strongest  s^iQils.  The  boy  had  a  sense  of  power  and 
authority  in  this  patron  of  his  that  engrossea  his  whole 
attention  and  exacted  his  most  implicit  submission  and 
obedience.  He  hardly  considered  himself  safe  in  think- 
ing about  him  when  he  was  absent,  lest  be  should  feel 
himself  immediately  taken  by  the  throat  f^^n,  as  on 
the  morning  when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  161 

should  Bee  every  one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and 
taxiue  bim  with  every  fancy  of  his  mind.  Face  to  face 
with  him,  Rob  had  no  more  doubt  that  Mr,  Carker  read 
liis  secret  thoughts,  or  that  he  could  read  them  by  the 
least  exertion  of  his  will  if  he  were  so  inclined,  than  he 
had  that  Mr,  Carker  saw  him  when  he  looked  at  him. 
The  ascendency  was  so  complete,  and  held  him  in  such 
enthralment,  that,  hardly  daring  to  think  at  all,  but 
with  his  mind  filled  with  a  constantly  dilating  impres- 
sion of  his  patron's  irresistible  command  over  nim,  and 
power  of  doing  anything  with  him,  he  would  stand 
watching  his  pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate  his 
orders,  in  a  state  of  mental  suspension  as  to  all  other 
things. 

Rod  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps — in  his  then 
state  of  mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common 
temerity  to  inquire — whether  he  yielded  so  completely 
to  this  influence  in  any  part,  because  he  had  floating 
suspicions  of  his  patrons  being  a  master  of  certain 
treacherous  arts  in  which  he  had  himself  been  a  poor 
scholar  at  the  Grinders'  School.  But  certainly  Rob  ad- 
mired him,  as  wel!  as  feared  him.  Mr,  Carker,  perhaps, 
■was  better  acquainted  with  the  sources  of  his  power, 
which  lost  notning  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  captain's  service, 
Rob,  after  disposmg  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a 
bad  bargain  in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to 
Mr.  Carter's  house,  and  hotly  presented  himself  before 
his  new  master  with  a  glowing  face  that  seemed  to  ex- 
pect conunendation. 

"What,  scapegrace!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at 
his  bundle.  "Have  you  left  your  situation  and  come 
to  me?" 

"Oh  if  you  please,  sir,"  faltered  Rob,  "  you  said,  you 
know,  when  I  come  here  last—" 

"/said,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  "what  did  I  say?" 

"  If  youplease,  sir,  you  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  air," 
returned  Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry, 
and  very  much  disconcerted. 

His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a  wide  display  of 
gums,  and  shaking  his  forefinger,  observed: 

"  You'll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  I 
foresee.    There's  ruin  in  store  for  you.' 

"Oh,   if  you  please,  don't,  sirl'  cried  "EUib, VVOi\'*wia 


163  DOMBEY  AWi)  SON. 

legs  trembling  under  him.  "I'm  sure,  sir,  I  only  want 
to  work  for  you,  sir,  and  to  wait  upon  you,  sir,  and  to 
do  faithful  whatever  I'm  bid,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid,'' 
returned  his  patron,  "  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  sir."  pleaded  the  submissive  Bob; 
"  I'm  sure  of  that,  sir.  If  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  try 
me,  sir!  And  if  ever  you  find  me  out,  sir,  doing  any- 
thing against  your  wishes,  I  give  you  leave  to  kill  me." 

"You  dog!  said  Mr.  Carter,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  "  That's  nothing  to 
what  I'd  do  to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  abject  Grinder,  "I'm  sure  you 
would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful,  sir.  I  wouldn't  at- 
tempt for  to  go  and  do  it,  sir,  not  if  I  was  bribed  with 
golden  guineas." 

Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectation  of  commenda- 
tion, the  crcRt-fallen  Grinder  stood  looking  at  his 
patron,  and  vainly  endeavoring  not  to  look  at  him,  with 
the  uneasiness  which  a  cur  will  often  manifest  in  a  sim- 
ilar situation. 

"So  you  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to 
ask  me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh?"  said  Mr,  Carker. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing 
80,  had  acted  on  his  patron's  own  instructions,  but  dared 
not  justify  himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  ef- 
fect. 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  Carker.     "You  know  me,  boy?" 

"  Please,  sir,  yes,  sir."  returned  Rob,  fumbling  with 
his  hat,  and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Carker's  eye,  and  fruit- 
lessly endeavoring  to  unfix  himself. 

Mr.  Carker  nodde<l.     "  Take  care  then '. " 

Rob  expressed  in  a  number  of  short  bows  his  livelv 
understanding  of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  bimseff 
back  to  the  door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of  get- 
ting on  the  outside  of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped  him. 

"  Halloa! "  he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back.  "  You 
have  been — shut  that  door." 

Rob  obeyed  as  if  his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

"  You  have  I>een  used  to  eavesdropping.  Do  yo;. 
know  what  that  means?" 

"Listening,  sir? "Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embar- 
rassed reflection. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  163 

His  patron  nodded.     "And  watching,  and  bo  forth." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  here,  sir,"  answered  Rob; 
"  upon  mj^  word  and  honor,  I  wouldn't,  sir,  I  wish  I 
may  die  if  I  would,  sir,  for  anything  that  could  be 
promised  to  me.  I  should  consider  it  as  much  as  all  the 
world  was  worth  to  offer  to  do  such  a  thing,  unless  I 
was  ordered,  sir," 

■'You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to 
babbling  and  tattling,"  said  his  patron,  with  perfect 
coolness.  "Beware  of  that  here,  or  you're  a  lost  ras- 
cal," and  he  smiled  again,  and  again  cautioned  him 
with  his  forefinger. 

The  Grinder's  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  con- 
sternation. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  inten- 
tions, but  could  only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a 
stupor  of  submission,  with  which  the  smifing  gentleman 
seemed  well  enough  satisfied,  for  he  ordered  him  down- 
stairs, after  observing  him  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  retained  in  his 
employment. 

"This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder's  engage- 
ment by  Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-stricken  devotiop  to 
that  gentleman  had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  pos- 
sible, with  every  minute  of  his  service. 

It  was  a  service  of  some  months'  duration,  when  early 
one  morning,  Rob  opened  the  garden  gate  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  who  was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master  by 
appointment.  At  the  same  moment  his  master  himself 
came  hurrying  forth  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest, 
and  give  him  welcome  with  all  his  teeth. 

"  inever  thought,"  said  Carker,  when  he  had  assisted 
him  to  alight  from  his  horse,  "  to  see  you  here,  I'm 
sure.  This  is  an  extraordinary  dav  in  my  calendar.  No 
occasion  is  very  special  to  a  man  like  you,  who  mav  do 
anything:  but  to  a  man  like  me,  the  case  is  widely 
different." 

"  You  have  a  tasteful  place  here,  Carker,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  condescending  to  stop  upon  the.  lawn,  to  look 
about  him. 

"  You  can  afford  to  say  so,"  returned  Carker.  "  Thank 
you." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage, 
"  any  one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  very 
commodious  and  wt'll-arranged  i)lace— «\\u.i*  e\fesc,«'^'^" 


1G4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"As  far  as  it  goes,  truly,"  returned  Carker,  with  an 
air  of  disparagement.  "  It  wants  that  qualification. 
Well!  we  nave  said  enough  about  it;  ana  though  you 
can  afford  to  praise  it,  I  thank  you  none  the  less.  Will 
you  walk  inP^ 

Mr.  Dombey,  entering  the  bouse,  noticed,  as  he  had 
reason  to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  roomB, 
and  the  numerous  contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect 
that  abounded  there.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of 
humility,  received  this  notice  with  a  deferential  smile, 
and  said  he  understood  its  delicate  meaning,  and  appre- 
ciated it,  but  in  truth  the  cottage  was  good  enougn  for 
one  in  his  position — better,  perhaps,  than  such  a  man 
should  occupy,  poor  as  it  was. 

"  But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really 
does  look  better  than  it  is,"  he  said,  with  his  false  month 
distended  to  its  fullest  stretch.  "Just  as  monarchs 
imagine  attractions  in  the  lives  of  beggars." 

He  directed  a  sharp  glance  and  a  sharp  smile  at  Mr. 
Dombey  as  he  spoke,  and  a  sharper  glance,  and  a 
sharper  smile  yet,  when  Mr,  Dombey,  drawing  himself 
up  before  the  nre,  in  the  attitude  so  often  copied  by  his 
second  in  command,  looked  round  at  the  pictures  on  the 
walls.  Cursorily  as  his  cold  eye  wandered  over  them, 
Carker's  keen  glance  accompanied  his,  and  kept  pace 
with  his,  marking  exactly  where  it  went,  and  what  it 
saw.  As  it  restea  on  one  picture  in  particular,  Carker 
hardly  seemed  to  breathe,  his  sidelong  scrutiny  was  so 
catlike  and  vigilant,  but  the  eve  of  his  great  chief 
passed  from  that,  as  from  the  others,  and  appeared  no 
more  impressed  by  it  than  by  the  rest. 

Carker  looked  at  it — it  was  the  picture  that  resem- 
bled Edith — as  if  it  were  a  living  thing;  and  with  a 
wicked,  silent  laugh  upon  his  face,  that  seemed  in  part 
addressed  to  it,  though  it  was  all  derisive  of  the  great 
man  standing  so  unconscious  beside  him.  Breakfast  was 
soon  set  upon  the  table:  and,  inviting  Mr.  Dombey  to  a 
chair  which  had  its  back  towards  this  picture,  he  took 
■  bis  own  seat  opposite  to  it  as  usual. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom 
to  be,  and  quite  silent.  The  parrot,  swinging  in  the 
gilded  hoop  within  her  jmudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain 
to  attract  notice,  for  Carker  was  too  observant  of  his 
visitor  to  heed  her;  and  the  visitor,  abstracted  in  medi- 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  165 

tation,  looked  fixedly,  not  to  say  sullenly,  over  his  stiff 
neckcloth,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  table-cloth. 
As  to  Rob,  who  was  in  attendance,  all  his  faculties  and 
energies  were  so  locked  up  in  observation  of  his  maeter. 
that  he  scarcely  ventured  to  give  shelter  to  the  thought 
that  the  visitor  was  the  great  gentleman  before  whom 
he  had  been  carried  as  a  certificate  of  the  family  health, 
in  his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for 
his  leather  smalls. 

"Allow  me,"  said  Carker,  suddenly,  "  to  ask  how  Mrs. 
Dombey  is?" 

He  leaned  fo^^va^d  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  in- 
quiry, with  his  chin  resting  on  nis  hand;  and  at  the 
same  time  his  eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he  said 
to  it,  "  Now,  see,  how  I  will  lead  him  on!" 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered: 

"  Mrs.  Domoey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker, 
of  some  conversation  that  I  wish  to  have  with  you," 

"  Robin,  you  can  leave  us,"  said  his  master,  at  whose 
mild  tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  patron  to  the  last.  "You  don't  rememher 
that  boy,  of  course?"  he  added,  when  the  immeshed 
Grinder  was  gone. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Domhey,  with  magnificent  indifference. 

"Not  likely  that  a  man  like  you  would.  Hardly  pos- 
sible," murmured  Carker.  "  But  he  is  one  of  that  family 
from  whom  you  took  a  nurse.  Perhaps  you  may  re- 
member havmg  generously  charged  yourself  with  his 
education?" 

"  Is  it  that  boy?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown. 
"  He  does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I  believe." 

"Wliy,  he  is  a  young  rip,  I  am  afraid,"  returned 
Carker,  with  a  shrug.  "  He  bears  that  character.  But 
the  truth  is,  I  took  him  into  my  service  because,  being 
able  to  get  no  other  employment,  he  conceived  {had 
been  taught  at  home,  1  dare  say)  that  he  had  some  sort 
of  claim  upon  you,  and  was  constantly  trying  to  dog 
your  heels  with  his  petition.  And  although  mj  defined 
and  recognised  connexion  withyour affairs  is  merely  of 
a  business  character,  still  I  have  that  spontaneous  in- 
terest in  everything  belonging  to  you,  that — " 

He  stopi^d  again,  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had 
led  Mr.  Dombey  far  enough  yet.  And  again,  with  his 
chin  resting  on  his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  -^VtAw-ni. 


1C6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombej,  "  I  am  senBible  that  you 
do  not  limit  your — " 

"Service,'  sug^sted  his  smiliuK  entertainer. 

"  No;  I  prefer  to  say  your  regara,"  observed  Mr.  Doni- 
bey;  very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  that  he  was  paying 
him  a  handsome  and  flattering  compliment,  "to  our 
mere  business  relations.  Your  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  hopes,  and  disappointments,  in  the  little  in- 
stance you  nave  just  novr  mentioned,  is  an  example  in 
point.     I  am  obliged  to  you,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  bent  his  head  slowly,  and  very  softly 
rubbed  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  by  any  action  to 
disturb  the  current  of  Mr.  Dombey's  confidence. 


after  a  little  hesitation,  ' '  for  it  prepares  the  way  to  what 
I  was  beginning  to  say  to  you,  anu  reminds  me  that  that 
involves  no  absolutely  new  relations  between  us,  al- 
though it  may  involve  more  personal  confidence  on  my 
part  than  I  have  hitherto—" 

"Distinguished  me  with,'"  suggested  Carker,  bending 
his  head  again :  "  I  will  not  say  to  you  how  honored  1 
am;  for  a  man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honor  he 
has  it  in  his  power  to  bestow  at  pleasure." 

' '  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  passing 
this  compliment  with  august  self-denial,  "are  not  quite 
agreed  upon  some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to  under- 
stand each  other  yet.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  something  to 
learn." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attrac- 
tions; and  has  been  accustomed,  no  douot,  to  receive 
much  adulation,"  said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his 
slightest  look  and  tone.  "  But  where  there  is  affection, 
dutv,  and  respect,  any  little  mistakes  engendered  by 
such  causes  are  soon  set  right," 

Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the 
face  that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife's  dressing-room 
when  an  imperious  band  was  stretched  towards  the 
door;  and  remembering  the  affection,  duty,  and  respect, 
expressed  in  it,  he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face 
quite  as  plainly  as  the  watchful  eyes  upon  him  saw  it 
there. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself/'he  went  on  to  say,  "  had 
Rome  discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton's  death,  upon  the 
causes  of  my  dissatisfaction;  of  which  you  will  have 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  16? 

formed  a  g:enerai  understanding  from  having  been  a 
witness  of  what  passed  between  Mrs,  Dombey  and  my- 
self on  the  evening  when  you  were  at  our — at  my 
house." 

"  When  I  BO  much  regretted  being  present,"  said  the 
smiling  Carker,  "Proud  as  a  man  in  my  position 
necessarily  must  be  of  your  familiar  notice — though  I 
give  you  no  credit  for  it;  you  may  do  anything  you 
please  without  losing  caste — and  honored  as  I  was  by 
an  early  presentation  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  before  she  was 
made  eminent  by  bearing  your  name,  I  almost  regretted 
that  night,  I  assure  you,  that  I  had  been  the  object  of 
such  especial  good  fortune." 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circum- 
stances, regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  conde- 
scension and  patronage,  was  a  moral  phenomenon 
which  Mr.  Dombey  could  not  comprehend.  He  there- 
fore responded,  with  a  considerable  accession  of  dig- 
nity.    "  Indeed  1     And  why,  Carker?" 

'•  I  fear,"  returned  the  confidential  agent,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dombey,  never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with 
favorable  interest— one  in  my  position  could  not  expect 
that,  from  a  lady  naturally  proud,  and  whose  pride 
becomes  her  so  well — may  not  easily  forgive  my  inno- 
cent part  in  that  conversation.  Your  displeasure  is 
no  light  matter,  you  must  remember;  and  to  be  visited 
with  it  before  a  third  party — " 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly;  "I  presume 
that  /am  the  first  consideration?" 

"  OhI  Can  there  be  a  doubt  about  it?"  replied  the 
other,  with  the  impatience  of  a  man  admitting  a  noto- 
rious and  incontrovertible  fact. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  becomes  a  secondary  consideration, 
when  we  are  both  in  question,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.     "  Is  that  so? 

"  Is  it  so?"  returned  Carker.  "Do  you  know  better 
than  any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask?" 

"  Then  I  hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  your 
regret  in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  displeasure, 
may  be  almost  counterbalanced  by  your  satisfaction  in 
retaining  my  confidence  and  good  opinion." 

"  I  have  the  misfortune,  I  find," returned  Carker,  "to 
have  incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  «.t..- 
pressed  it  to  you?" 


168  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  various  opinions,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  majestic  coldaeBS  ana  indifference, 
"  in  which  I  do  not  participate,  and  which  I  am  not  in- 
clined to  discuss,  or  to  recall.  I  made  Mrs.  Dombey 
acquainted,  some  time  since,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
with  certain  points  of  domestic  deference  and  submis- 
sion on  which  I  felt  it  necessary  to  insist.  I  failed  to 
convince  Mrs.  Dombey  of  the  expediency  of  her  imme- 
diately altering  her  conduct  in  those  respects,  with  a  view 
to  her  own  peace  and  welfare,  and  my  dignity;  and  I 
informed  Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  I  should  find  it  necessary 
to  object  or  remonstrate  again  I  should  express  my 
opinion  to  her  through  yourself,  my  confidential  agent. ' 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him, 
was  a  devilitnh  look  at  the  picture  over  his  bead,  that 
struck  upon  it  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Now,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  to  you  that  I  will  carry  my  point.  I  am  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my 
will  is  law,  and  that  I  cannot  allow  of  one  exception  to 
the  whole  rule  of  my  life.  You  will  have  the  goodness 
to  undertake  this  charge,  which,  coming  from  me,  is 
not  unacceptable  to  you,  I  hope,  whatever  regret  you 
may  politely  profess — for  which  I  am  obliged  to  you  on 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Dombey;  and  you  will  have  the  goodness, 
I  ara  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as  exactly  as  any  other 
commission." 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "that  you  have  only 
to  command  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  majestic  indica- 
tion of  assent,  "  that  I  have  only  to  command  you.  It 
is  necessary  tbat  I  should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey is  a  lady  undoubtedly  highly  qualified,  in  many 
respects,  to —  " 

"  To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker, 
with  a  fawning  show  of  teeth. 

"  Yes:  if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  words," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  tone  of  state;  "  and  at  present 
I  do  not  conceive  that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to 
it,  to  which  it  is  entitled.  There  is  a  principle  of  op- 
position in  Mrs.  Dombey  that  must  be  eradicated;  that 
must  be  overcome:  Mrs,  Dombey  does  not  appear  to  un- 
derstand," said  Mr.  Dombey,  forcibly,  "that  the  idea 
of  opposition  to  Me  is  monstrous  and  absurd." 

-Google 


DOMBEY  AKD  son.  169 

"We,  in  the  City,  know  you  better,"  replied  Oarker. 
with  a  smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"You  know  me  better,"  said  Mr,  Dombey.  "I  hope 
80.  Though,  indeed,  I  am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey 
'the  justice  of  saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  Boeni 
with  her  subsequent  conduct  (which  remains  un- 
changed), that  on  my  expressing  my  disapprobation 
and  determination  to  her,  with  some  seventy,  on  the 
occasion  to  which  I  have  referred,  my  amnonition 
appeared  to  produce  a  very  powerful  effect."  Mr.  Dom- 
bey deliver^  himself  of  those  words  with  most  por- 
tentous stateliness.  "I  wish  you  to  have  the  goodness, 
then,  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey,  Carker,  from  me,  that  I 
must  recall  our  former  conversation  to  her  remem- 
brance in  some  surprise  that  it  has  not  yet  had  its 
efffct.  That  I  must  insist  upon  her  regulating  her 
conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon  her  in  that  con- 
versation. That  I  am  not  satisfied  with  her  conduct, 
Tliat  I  am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it.  And  that  I  shall 
■be  under  the  very  disagreeable  necessity jDf  making  you 
the  bearer  of  yet  more  unwelcome  and  explicit  com- 
munications if  she  has  not  the  good  sense  and  the 
proper  feeling  to  adapt  herself  to  my  wishes,  as  the  first 
Mrs.  Dombey  did,  and,  I  believe  I  may  add,  as  any  other 
lady  in  her  place  would." 

"The  first  Mrs,  Dombey  lived  very  happily,"  said 
Carker. 

"The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead, 
"  ajid  very  correct  feeling." 

"Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think?" 
said  Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darkly,  Mr.  Dombey's  face  changed.  His 
confidential  agent  eyed  it  keenly. 

"I  have  approached  a  painful  subject,"  he  said  in  a 
soft  regretful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcilable  with  his 
eager  ej^e.  "Pray  forgive  me.  I  forget  these  chains 
of  association  in  the  interest  I  have.     Pray  foi^ive  me." 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's downcast  face  none  the  less  closely;  and  then  it 
shot  a  strange  triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  appeal- 
ing to  it  to  bear  witness  how  he  led  him  on  again,  and 
what  was  coming. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  \i.6t«i  «&ft.  'Cti^'tfe 


170  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

upon  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  somewhat  altered  and 
more  hurried  voice,  and  with  a  paler  lip,  "there  is  no 
occasion  for  apology.  You  mistake.  The  association  is 
with  the  matter  in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection, 
as  you  suppose.  I  do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  be- 
havior towards  my  daughter.' 

"  Pardon  me," said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  don't  quite imder- 
stand." 

"Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey^  "that  you 
may  make  that^-that  you  will  make  that,  it  yeu  please 
— matter  of  direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dombey. 
You  will  please  to  tell  her  that  her  show  of  devotion  to 
my  daughter  is  disagreeable  to  me.  It  is  likely  to  be 
noticed.  It  is  likely  to  induce  people  to  contrast  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  my  daughter  with  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  myself.  You  will  have 
the  goodness  to  let  Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainlj^,  that  I 
object  to  it;  and  that  I  expect  her  to  defer,  immedi- 
ately, to  my  objection,  Mrs.  Dombey  may  be  in  earnest, 
or  she  may  be  pursuing  a  whim,  or  she  may  be  opposing 
me;  but  I  object  to  it  in  any  case,  and  in  every  case.  If 
Mrs.  Dombey  is  in  earnest,  so  much  the  less  reluctant 
should  she  be  to  desist;  for  she  will  not  serve  my 
daughter  by  any  such  display.  If  my  wife  has  any  su- 
perfluous gentleness,  and  duty  over  and  above  her 
proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them  where 
she  pleases,  perhaps;  but  I  will  have  submission  firstl 
— Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emo- 
tion with  which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a  tone 
more  like  that  in  which  he  was  accustomea  to  assert  his 
greatness,  "  you  will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or 
slur  this  point,  but  to  consider  it  a  very  important  part 
of  your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table, 
and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand 
to  his  smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr,  Dombev  with 
the  evil  slyness  of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human 
and  half  brute;  or  like  a  leering  face  on  an  old  water- 
spout. Mr.  Dombey,  recovering  his  composure  by  de- 
grees, or  cooling  his  emotion  in  his  sense  of  having 
taken  a  high  position,  sat  gradual^  stiffening  i^ain, 
and  looking  at  the  parrot  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  in 
her  great  wedding  ring. 

■'  Ibeg  your  pardon,"  said  Carker,  after  a  silence,  sud- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  171 

•  denly  resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite  to 
Mr.  Dombey's,  "  but  let  me  understand.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  aware  of  the  probability  of  your  making  me  the  or- 
gan of  your  displeasure?  " 

•'  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombej^,     "  I  have  said  so." 
"  Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly;  "  but  why?  " 


"Why!"  Mr.  Dombey  repeatei 
tion.     "  Because  I  told  Tier. 


id,  not  without  hesita- 

"Ay,"  replied  Carker.  "But  why  did  you  tell  her? 
You  see,"  he  coiitinued  with  a  smile,  and  softly  laying 
his  velvet  hand,  as  a  cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed 
claws,  on  Mr.  Dombey's  arm;  "  if  I  perfectly  understand 
what  is  in  your  mind,  I  am  so  much  more  likely  to  be 
useful,  and  to  have  the  happiness  of  being  effectually 
employed.  I  think  I  do  understand.  I  have  not  the 
honor  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  good  opinion.  In  my  position, 
I  have  no  reason  to  expect  it;  but  I  take  the  fact  to  be, 
that  I  have  not  got  it?  ' 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Consequently,"  pursued  Carker,  "  your  making  these 
communications  to  Mrs,  Dombey  through  me  is  sure  to 
be  particularly  unpalatable  to  that  lady?" 

"It  appears  to  me," said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  haughty 
reserve,  and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  ■'  that  Mrs. 
Dombey's  views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as  it 
presents  itself  to  you  and  me,  Carker.    But  it  may  be  so." 

"  And  — pardon  me — do  I  misconceive  you,"  said  Car- 
ker, "  when  I  think  you  descry  in  this  a  likely  means  of 
humbling  Mrs.  Dombey's  pride — I  use  the  word  as  ex- 
pressive of  a  quality  which,  kept  within  due  bounds, 
adorns  and  graces  a  lady  so  distinguished  for  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments — and,  not  to  say  of  punishing  her, 
but  of  reducing  her  to  the  submission  you  so  naturally 
and  justly  require?  " 

"I  am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  "to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course 
of  conduct  I  think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I  will  gainsay 
nothing  of  this.  If  you  have  any  objection  to  found 
upon  it,  that  is  indeed  another  thing,  and  the  mere 
statement  that  you  have  one  will  be  sufficient.  But  I 
have  not  supposed,  I  confess,  that  anv  confidence  I 
could  intrust  to  you,  would  be  likely  to  oegrade  you — " 

"  Oh!  /  degraded! "  exclaimed  Carker.     "  In  your  wav 


178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

" — or  to  place  you,"pur6ued  Mr,  Dombey,  "inafaUe, 
position. " 

"/in  a  false  pOBition!"  exclaimed  Carker.  "I  shall 
be  proud — delignted — to  execute  your  trust.  I  could 
have  wished,  I  own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whost' 
feet  I  would  lay  my  humble  duty  and  devotion^for  is 
she  not  your  wife! — no  new  cause  of  dislike;  but  a  wish 
rom  you  is,  of  course,  paramount  to  every  other  con- 
sideration on  earth.  Besides,  when  Mrs.  Dombey  is 
converted  from  these  little  errors  of  judgment,  mci- 
dental,  I  would  presume  to  say,  to  the  novelty  of  her 
situation,  I  shall  hope  that  she  will  perceive  in  the 
slight  part  I  take,  only  a  grain — my  removed  and  differ- 
ent sphere  gives  room  for  little  more — of  the  respect  for 
you,  and  sacrifice  of  all  considerations  to  you,  of  which 
it  will  be  her  pleasure  and  privilege  to  garner  up  a 
great  store  every  day." 

Mr,  Dombey  seemed,  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  her 
with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door,  and 
again  to  bear  through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confiden- 
tial agent  an  echo  of  the  words,  "Nothing  can  make  us 
stranger  to  each  other  than  we  aj*e  henceforth!"  But 
he  shook  off  the  fancy,  and  did  not  shake  in  his  resolu- 
tion, and  said,  "  Certainly,  no  doubt." 

"  There  is  nothing  more,"  quoth  Carker,  drawing  his 
chair  back  to  its  old  place — for  they  haid  taken  little 
brezikfast  as  yet — and  pausing  for  an  answer  before  he 
sat  down. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "but  this.  You  will  be 
good  enough  to  observe,  Carker,  that  no  message  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  with  which  you  are  or  may  be  charged, 
admits  of  reply.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me 
no  reply.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  informed  that  it  does  not  be- 
come me  to  temporise  or  treat  upon  any  matter  that  is 
at  issue  between  us,  and  that  what  I  say  is  final," 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  cre- 
dentials, and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite 
they  might.  The  Grinder  also,  in  due  time,  re-appeared, 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  his  master  without  a  moment's 
respite,  and  passing  the  time  in  a  reverie  of  worshipful 
terror.  Breakfast  concluded.  Mr.  Dombey's  horse  was 
ordered  out  again,  and  Mr.  Carker  mounting  his  own. 
they  rode  off  n>r  the  City  together. 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  173 

Mr.  Dombey  received  his  conversation  witli  the  sov- 
ereign air  of  a  man  who  had  a  right  to  he  talked  to,  and 
occasionally  condescended  to  throw  in  a  few  words  to 
carry  on  the  conversation.  So  they  rode  on  character- 
istically enough.  But  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  dignity,  rode 
with  very  long  stirrups,  and  a  very  looBe  rein,  and  very 
rarely  deigned  to  look  down  to  see  where  bis  horse 
went.  In  consequence  of  which  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Dombey's  horse,  while  going  at  a  round  trot  stumbled 
on  some  loose  stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over  him,  and 
lashing  him  with  his  iron-shod  feet,  in  his  struggles  to 
get  up,  kicked  him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steady  of  hand,  and  a  good 
horseman,  was  afoot,  and  bad  the  struggling  animal 
upon  his  legs  and  by  the  bridle,  in  a  moment.  Other- 
wise that  morning's  confidence  would  have  been  Mr. 
Dombey's  last.  Yet  even  with  the  flush  and  hurry  of 
this  action  red  upon  him,  he  bent  over  bis  prostrate 
chief  with  every  tooth  disclpsed,  and  muttered  as  he 
stooped  down,  '■  I  have  given  good  cause  of  offence  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  noiv,  if  she  knew  it!" 

Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the 
head  and  face,  was  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the 
road,  under  Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public- 
house,  which  was  not  far  off,  and  where  he  was  soon 
attended  by  divers  surgeons,  who  arrived  in  quick  suc- 
cession from  all  parts,  and  who  seemed  to  come  by 
some  mysterious  instinct,  as  vultures  are  said  to  gather 
about  a  camel  who  dies  in  the  desert.  After  bemg  at 
some  pains  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  these  gen- 
tlemen examined  into  the  nature  of  his  injuries.  One 
surgeon  who  lived  bard  by  was  strong  for  a  compound 
fracture  of  the  leg,  whicn  was  the  landlord's  opinion 
also;  but  two  surgeons  who  lived  at  a  distance,  and 
were  only  in  that  neighborhood  by  accident,  combated 
this  opinion  so  disinterestedly,  that  it  was  decided  at 
last  that  the  patient,  though  severely  cut  and  bruised, 
had  broken  no  bones  but  a  lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might 
be  carefujly  taken  home  before  night.  His  injuries 
being  dressed  and  bandaged,  which  was  a  long  opera- 
tion, and  he  at  length  left  to  repose,  Mr.  Carker 
mounted  his  horse  again,  and  rode  away  to  carry  the 
intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  tbe  \ie%\.  q1  Nxoj&s., 


in  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

though  it  was  a  sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and 
regularity  of  feature,  it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set 
forth  on  this  errand;  animated  by  the  craft  and  crueltj' 
of  thoughts  within  him,  suggestions  of  remote  possi- 
bility rather  than  of  design  or  plot,  that  made  him  ride 
as  if  he  hunted  men  and  women.  Drawing  rein  at 
length,  and  slackening  in  his  speed,  as  he  came  into 
the  more  public  roads,  he  checked  his  white-legged 
horse  into  picking  his  way  along  as  usual,  and  hid  him- 
self beneatn  his  sleek,  hushed,  crouching  manner,  and 
his  ivory  smile,  as  he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  alighted  at  the 
door,  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of 
importance.  The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  own  room,  soon  returned  to  say  that  it  was 
not  Mrs,  Dombey's  hour  for  receiving  visitors,  and 
that  he  begged  pardon  for  not  having  mentioned  it  be- 
fore. 

Mr.  Carker,  who  was  quite  prepared  for  a  cold  recep- 
tion, wrote  upon  a  card  tnat  he  must  take  the  liberty  of 
pressing  for  an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so 
fjold  as  to  do  so,  for  ike  second  time  (this  he  underlined), 
if  he  were  not  equally  sure  of  the  occasion  being  suffi- 
cient for  his  justification.  After  a  trifling  delay,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  maid  appeared,  and  conducted  him  to  a  room- 
ing room  up-stairs,  where  Edith  and  Florence  were 
together. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  beautiful  before. 
Much  as  he  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and  form, 
and  freshly  as  they  dwelt  within  his  sensual  remem- 
brance, he  had  never  thought  her  half  so  beautiful. 

Her  glance  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  doorway; 
but  he  looked  at  Florence — though,  only  in  the  act  of 
bending  his  head,  as  he  came  in — with  some  irrepressi- 
ble expression  of  the  new  power  he  held:  and  it  was  his 
triuniph  to  see  the  glance  droop  and  falter,  and  to  see 
that  Edith  half  rose  up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  lie  was  deeply  grieved;  he  couldn't 
say  with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for 
the  intelligence  of  a  very  slight  accident.  He  entreated 
Mrs.  Dombey  to  compbse  herself.  Upon  his  sacred  word 
of  honor,  there  was  no  cause  of  alarm.  But  Mr.  Dom- 
bey— 

Florence  uttered  a  sudden  cry.    He  did  not  !<x)k  at 


^DOMBEY  AND  SON.  IW 

her,  but  at  Bdith.  Bdith  composed  and  re-assured  her. 
She  uttered  no  cry  of  distress.     No,  no, 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His 
horse  had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildly  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt; 
that  he  was  killea  I 

No,  Upon  his  honor,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned 
at  first,  was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt 
was  in  no  kind  of  danger.  If  this  were  not  the  case, 
he,  the  distressed  intruder,  never  could  have  had  the 
courage  to  present  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey.  It  was 
the  truth  indeed,  he  solemnly  assured  her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  and 
not  Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  his  smile  fastened 
on  Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dombey  was 
Ij^ing,  and  to  request  that  a  carriage  might  be  placed  at 
his  disposal  to  bring  him  home. 

"  Mama,"  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "  if  I  might  vent- 
ure to  go!" 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard 
these  words,  gave  her  a  secret  look  and  slightly  shook 
his  head.  He  saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before 
she  answered  him  with  her  handsome  eyes,  but  he 
wrested  the  answer  from  her — he  showed  her  that  he 
would  have  it,  or  that  he  would  speak  and  cut  Florence 
to  the  heart — and  she  gave  it  to  him.  As  he  had  looked 
at  the  picture  in  the  morning,  so  he  looked  at  her  after- 
w£ird8,  when  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"I  am  directed  to  request,"  he  saia,  "that  the  new 
housekeeper — Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  think,  is  the  name — " 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw,  in  an  instant,  that 
she  was  another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

"  — may  be  informed  that  Mr.  Dombey  wishes  to  have 
his  bed  prepared  in  his  own  apartments  down-stairs,  as 
he  prefers  those  rooms  to  any  other.  I  shall  return  to 
Mr.  Dombey  almost  immediately.  That  every  possible 
attention  has  been  paid  to  his  comfort,  and  that  he  is 
the  object  of  every  possible  solicitude,  I  need  not  assure 
you,  madam.  Let  me  again  say,  that  there  is  no  cause 
for  the  least  alarm.  Even  you  may  he  quite  at  ease, 
believe  me." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extremest  show  of  def- 
erence and   concihation;  and  having  tctwx\ve&  \.<i  "ySix, 


176  DOMBEY  AND  SON^ 

Dombey's  room,  and  there  arranged  for  a  carriage  bein^ 
sent  after  him  to  the  City,  mounted  his  horse  again,  and 
rode  slowly  thither.  He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he 
went  along,  and  very  thoughtful  there,  and  very 
thoughtful  in  the  carriage  on  nis  way  back  to  the  place 
where  Mr.  Dombey  had  been  left.  It  was  only  when 
sitting  by  that  gentleman's  couch  that  he  was  quite 
himself  again,  and  conscious  of  his  teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously 
afflicted  with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  car- 
riage, and  propped  with  cloaks  and  pillows  on  one  side 
of  it,  while  his  confidential  agent  bore  him  company 
upon  the  other.  As  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  they 
moved  at  little  more  than  a  foot  pace;  and  hence  it  was 
quite  dark  when  he  was  brought  home.  Mrs.  Pipehin, 
bitter  and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
as  the  establishment  in  general  had  good  reason  to  know, 
received  him  at  the  door,  and  freshened  the  domestics 
with  several  little  sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar,  while 
they  assisted  in  conveying  him  to  his  room.  Mr.  Carker 
remained  in  attendance  until  he  was  safe  in  bed,  and 
then,  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female  visitor,  but 
the  excellent  Ogress  who  presided  over  his  household, 
waited  on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on 
her  lord's  condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he 
again  addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to 
Edith,  as  if  she  were  a  prey  to  the  liveliest  and  most  af- 
fectionate anxieties.  So  earnest  he  was  in  his  respect- 
ful sympathy,  that,  on  taking  leave,  he  ventured — with 
one  more  glance  towards  Florence  at  the  moment — to 
take  her  hand  and,  bending  over  it,  to  touch  it  with  his 
lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike 
his  fair  face  with  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her  cheek, 
the  bright  light  in  her  eyes  and  the  dilation  of  her  whole 
form.  But  when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room,  she 
struck  it  on  the  marble  chimney-shelf,  so  that,  at  one 
blow,  it  was  bruised,  and  bled;  and  held  it  from  her, 
near  the  shining  fire,  as  if  she  could  have  thrust  it  in 
and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blaze, 
in  dark  and  threatening  beauty,  watching  the  murky 
shadows  looming  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were 


DOMEEY  AND  SON.  177 

tangible,  and  cast  them  there.  Whatever  shapes  of  out- 
rage aud  aflfront,  and  black  foreshadowings  of  things 
that  might  happen,  flickered,  indistinct  and  giant-hke, 
before  her,  one  resented  figure  marshalled  them  against 
her.    And  that  figure  was  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    WATCHES   OF   THE    NIOHT. 

Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream, 
mournfully  observed  the  estrangement  between  her 
father  and  Edith,  and  saw  it  widen  more  and  more,  and 
knew  that  there  was  greater  bitterness  between  them 
every  day.  Each  day's  added  knowledge  deepened  the 
shade  upon  her  love  and  hope,  roused  up  the  old  sorrow 
that  had  slumbered  for  a  little  time,  and  made  it  even 
heavier  to  bear  than  it  had  been  before. 

It  had  been  hard — how  hard  ma^  none  but  Florence 
ever  know! — to  have  the  natural  affection  of  a  true  and 
earnest  nature  turned  to  agonv;  and  slight,  or  stern  re- 

Sulse,  substituted  for  the  tendereat  protection  and  the 
earest  care.  It  had  been  hard  to  feel  in  her  deep  heart 
what  she  had  felt,  and  never  know  the  happiness  of  one 
touch  of  response.  But  it  was  much  more  hard  to  be 
compelled  to  doubt  either  her  father  or  Edith,  so  affec- 
tionate and  dear  to  her,  and  to  think  of  her  love  for 
each  of  them,  by  turns,  with  fear,  distrust  and  wonder. 
Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so;  and  tlie  doing  of  it 
was  a  task  imposed  upon  her  by  the  very  purity  of  her 
soul,  as  one  she  could  not  fly  from.  She  saw  her  father 
cold  and  obdurate  to  Edith,  as  to  her;  hard,  inflexible, 
unyielding.  Could  it  be,  asked  herself  with  starting 
tears,  that  her  own  dear  mother  had  been  made  un- 
happy by  such  treatment,  and  had  pined  away  and 
died?  Then  she  would  think  how  proud  and  stately 
Edith  was  to  every  one  but  her,  with  what  disdain  she 
treated  him,  how  distantly  she  kept  apart  from  him, 
and  what  she  had  said  on  the  night  when  she  caxaa 
home;  and  quickly  it  would  come  on  Y\oTeTn»i,  si\sa<^X 


178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

as  a  crime,  that  she  loved  one  who  was  set  in  oppositioD 
to  her  father,  and  that  her  father  knowing;  of  it,  muBt 
think  of  her  in  his  solitary  room  as  the  unnatural  child 
who  added  this  wrong  to  the  old  fault,  so  much  wept 
for,  of  never  having  won  his  fatherly  affection  from  her 
birth.  The  next  kind  word  from  Edith,  the  next  kind 
glance,  would  Bhakc  these  thoughts  again,  and  make 
them  seem  like  black  ingratitude;  for  who  but  she  had 
cheered  the  drooping  heart  of  Florence,  so  lonely  and 
so  hurt,  and  been  its  best  of  comforters!  Thus,  with  her 
gentle  nature  yearning  to  them  both,  feeling  the  misery 
of  both,  and  whispering  doubts  of  her  own  duty  to  both, 
Florence  in  her  wider  and  expanded  love,  and  by  the 
side  of  Edith  enduring  more,  than  when  she  had 
hoarded  up  her  undivided  secret  in  the  mournful  house, 
and  her  beautiful  mama  had  never  dawned  upon  it 

One  exquisite  unhappiness  that  would  have  far  oat- 
weighed  this,  Florence  was  spared.  She  never  had  the 
least  suspicion  that  Edith  by  her  tenderness  for  her 
widened  the  separation  from  her  father,  or  gave  him 
new  cause  of  dislike.  If  Florence  had  conceived  the 
possibility  of  such  an  effect  being  wrought  by  such  a 
cause,  what  grief  she  would  have  felt,  what  sacrifice 
she  would  have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving  girl,  how 
fast  and  sure  her  quiet  passage  might  have  been  be- 
neath it  to  the  presence  of  that  higher  Father  who  does 
not  reject  his  children's  love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and 
broken  hearts.  Heaven  knows!  But  it  was  otherwise, 
and  that  was  well. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and  Edith 
now  on  these  subjects.  Edith  had  said  there  ought  to 
be  between  them,  in  that  wise,  a  division  and  a  silence 
like  the  grave  itself:  and  Florence  felt  that  she  was 
right. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  her  father  was  brought  home 
suffering  and  disabled:  and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own 
rooms,  where  he  was  tended  by  servants,  not  ap- 
proached by  Edith,  and  had  no  friend  or  companioD 
but  Mr.  Carker,  who  withdrew  near  midnight. 

"And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Floy,  said  Susan 
Nipper.  "  Oh,  he's  a  precious  piece  of  goods'  If  ever 
he  wants  a  character  don't  let  him  come  to  me  what- 
ever he  does,  that's  all  I  tell  him." 

"  Dear  Susan,"  urged  Florence,  "  don't! " 

C.oogk 


DOMEEY  AND  SON.  179 

"  Oh  it's  very  well  to  say  '  don't.  Miss  Floy,"  returned 
the  Nipper,  much  exasperated;  "  but  raly  begging  your 
pardon  we're  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all  the 
blood  in  a  person's  body  into  pins  and  needles,  with 
their  pints  all  ways.  Don't  mistake  me,  Miss  Floy,  I 
don't  mean  nothing  again  your  ma-in-law  who  has 
always  treated  me  as  a  lady  snould  though  she  is  rather 
high  I  must  say,  not  that  I  have  any  right  to  object  to 
that  particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs.  Pipcninses 
and  having  them  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard  at 
your  pa's  door  like  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful 
that  they  lay  no  eggs!)  we  are  a  growing  too  outra- 
geous! " 

"Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan,"  returned 
Florence,  "and  has  a  right  to  choose  his  housekeeper, 
you  know.    Pray  don't!" 

"  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the  Nipper,  "  when  you 
say  don't,  I  never  do  I  hope,  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like 
early  gooseberries  upon  me,  miss,  and  nothing  less." 

Susan  was  unusually  emphanc  and  destitute  of  punct- 
uation in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the 
night  of  Mr.  Dombey's  being  brought  home,  because, 
having  been  sent  down-stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire 
after  him,  she  had  been  obliged  to  deliver  her  message 
to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs.  Pipchin;  who,  without  carry- 
ing it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey,  had  taken  upon  herself  to  re- 
turn what  Miss  Nipper  called  a  hufifish  answer,  on  her 
own  responsibility.  This,  Susan  Nipper  construed  into 
presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary  sufferer  by 
the  Peruvian  mines,  and  a  deed  of  disparagement  upon 
her  young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven;  and  so  far 
her  emphatic  state  was  special.  ,  But  she  had  been  in  a 
condition  of  greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust, 
ever  since  the  marriage;  for,  like  most  persons  of  her 
quality  of  mind,  who  form  a  strong  and  sincere  attach- 
ment to  one  in  the  different  station  which  Florence 
occupied,  Susan  was  very  jealous,  and  her  jealousy  nat- 
urally attached  to  Edith,  who  divided  her  old  empire, 
and  came  between  them.  Proud  and  glad  as  Susan 
Nipper  truly  was  that  her  young  mistress  should  be  ad- 
vanced towards  her  proper  place  in  the  scene  of  her  old 
neglect,  and  that  she  should  have  her  father's  handsome 
wife  for  her  companion  and  protectress,  she  cowVi-V  w'J^ 
relinquish  any  part  of  her  own  dominwn.  \:0  VofeVa-'cA.- 


180  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

some  wife  without  a  ^^dge  and  a  vague  feeliog  of  ill- 
will,  for  which  she  did  not  fail  to  find  a  disintereeted 
juBtification  in  her  sharp  perception  of  the  pride  end 
passion  of  the  ladv's  character.  From  the  background 
to  which  she  had.  necessarily  retired  somewhat  since 
the  marriage,  Miss  Nipper  looked  on,  therefore,  at  do- 
mestic affairs  in  general,  with  a  resolute  conviction  that 
no  good  would  come  of  Mrs.  Dombey:  always  being 
very  careful  to  publish  on  all  possible  occasions  that  she 
had  nothing  to  say  against  her. 

"  Susan,  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully 
at  her  table,  "  it  is  very  late.  I  shall  want  nothing  more 
to-night." 

"Ah,  Miss  Floy!"  returned  the  Nipper,  "I'm  sure  I 
often  wish  for  them  old  times  when  I  sat  up  with  you 
hours  later  than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  being  tired 
out  when  you  was  as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  hut 
you've  ma  s-in-law  to  come  and  sit  with  you  now.  Miss 
IPloy,  and  I'm  thankful  for  it  I'm  sure.  I  ve  not  a  word 
to  say  against  'em." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when 
I  had  none,  Susan,"  returned  Florence,  gently,  "never!" 
And  looking  up,  she  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her 
humble  friend,  drew  her  face  down  to  hers,  and  bidding 
her  good  night,  kissed  it;  which  so  mollified  Miss  Nip- 
per that  she  fell  a  sobbing. 

"Now  my  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susem.  "let  me  go 
down-stairs  again  and  see  how  your  pa  is;  I  know  you're 
wretched  about  him;  do  let  me  go  down-stairs  again 
and  knock  at  his  door  my  own  self." 

"No,"  said  Florence,  "go  to  bed.  We  shall  hear  more 
in  the  morning.  I  wilHnquire  myself  in  the  morning. 
Mama  has  been  down'  I  dare  say;"  Florence  blushed, 
for  she  had  uo  such  hope;  "  or  is  there  now,  perhaps. 
Good  night!" 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  private 
opinion  on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  in 
attendance  on  her  husband;  and  silently  withdrew, 
Florence,  left  alone,  soon  hid  her  bead  upon  her  hands 
as  she  had  often  done  in  other  days,  and  did  not  restrain 
the  tears  from  coursing  down  her  face.  The  misery  of 
this  domestic  discord  and  unhappiness;  the  withered 
hope  she  cherished  now,  if  hope  it  could  be  called,  of 
ever  being  taken  to  her  father's  heart;  her  doubts  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  181 

fears  between  the  two;  the  yearning  of  her  innocent 
breaat  to  both;  the  heavy  disappointment  and  reKret  of 
such  an  end  ae  this  to  what  haa  been  a  vision  of  bright 
hope  and  promise  to  her;  all  crowded  on  her  mind  and 
made  her  tears  flow  fast.  Her  mother  and  her  brother 
dead,  her  father  unmoved  towards  her,  Edith  opposed 
to  him  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving  her,  and  loved 
by  her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could  never  prosper, 
rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was  soon 
hushed,  but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were 
too  true  and  strong  to  be  dismissed  with  it;  and  they 
made  the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had 
risen  up^all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and 
in  pain,  iilone  in  his  own  room,  untended  by  those  who 
should  be  nearest  to  him,  and  passing  the  tardv  hours 
in  lonely  suffering.  A  frightened  thought  which  made 
her  start  and  clasp  her  hands — though  it  was  not  a  new 
one  in  her  mind— that  he  might  die,  and  never  see  her 
or  pronounce  her  name,  thrilled  her  whole  frame.  In 
lier  agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  she 
thought,  of  once  more  stealing  down-stairs  and  ventur- 
ing to  his  door. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  The  house  was  quiet,  and 
all  the  lights  were  out.  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she 
thought,  since  she  used  to  make  her  nigntly  pilgrimages 
to  his  door!  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she  tried  to  think, 
since  she  had  entered  his  room  at  midnight  and  he  had 
led  her  back  to  the  stair-foot! 

With  the  same  child's  heart  within  her,  as  of  old: 
even  with  the  child's  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering 
hair:  Florence  as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early 
maiden  bloom  as  in  her  nursery  time,  crept  down  the 
staircase  listening  as  she  went,  and  drew  near  to  his 
room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house.  The  door  was 
partly  open  to  admit  air;  and  ail  was  so  still  within  that 
she  could  hear  the  burning  of  the  fire  and  count  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the  chimney-piece. 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room  the  housekeeper  wrapped 
in  a  blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy-chair  before  the 
fire.  The  doors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly 
closed  and  a  screen  was  drawn  before  them;  but  there 
was  a  light  there  and  it  shone  upon  the  cornice  <i<.  \»a 
bed.     All  was  so  very  still  that  Biie  co\i\4  Vteax  tcOTn.Y:-«. 


1H2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

.breathing  that  he  was  asleep.  This  gave  her  courage 
to  pass  round  the  screen  and  look  into  his  chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a  start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face 
as  if  she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Florence  stood  at- 
rested  on  the  spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then  nuut 
have  remained  there. 

There  was  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  bad  been 
wetting  his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entajigled  m 
the  pillow.  One  of  his  arms,  resting  outside  the  bed 
was  bandaged  up  and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  wa'^ 
not  this,  that  after  the  first  quick  glance  and  first  assur- 
ance of  his  sleeping  quietly,  held  Florence  rooted  to  the 
ground.  It  was  something  very  different  from  this, 
and  more  than  this,  that  made  him  look  so  solemn  in 
her  eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there 
had  been  upon  it— -or  she  fancied  so — some  disturbing 
consciousness  of  her.  She  had  never  seen  his  face  in 
al)  her  life  but  hope  had  sunk  within  her,  and  her  timid 
glance  had  drooped  before  its  stern,  unloving,  and  re- 
pelling harshness.  As  she  looked  upon  it  now  she  sav 
it,  for  the  first  time,  free  from  the  cloud  that  had  dark- 
ened her  childhood.  Calm,  tranquil  night,  was  reign- 
ing in  its  stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep,  for  any- 
thmg  she  saw  there,  blessing  her. 

Awake,  unkind  fatherl  Awake  now,  sullen  man' 
Tho  time  is  flitting  by;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an 
angry  tread.     Awakel 

Thore  was  no  change  ufjon  his  face;  and  as  she 
watched  it,  awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the 
faces  that  were  gone.  So  they  looked,  so  would  he;  s' 
she,  his  weeping  child,  who  should  sav  when!  so  all 
the  world  of  love  and  hatred  and  indifference  around 
them!  When  that  time  should  come  it  would  not  be  the 
heavier  to  him.  for  this  that  she  was  going  to  do;  and  it 


night  fall  something  lighter  upon  her. 
She  stole  close  to  thehed  and.  dra 


-  --.  drawing  in  her  breath. 

bent  down  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid 
her  own  for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the 
arm,  with  which  she  dare  not  touch  him,  rouna  about 
him  on  the  pillow. 

Awake,  doomed  man.  while  she  is  near!  The  time  is 
flitting  by;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread;  its 
foot  is  in  the  house.     Awake! 

D,-:..JI,G00J^|C 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  183 

In  her  mind  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father  and 
to  soften  him  towards  her,  if  it  might  be  so;  and  if  not 
to  forgive  him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  the 
prayer  which  almost  seemed  impiety.  And  doing  so, 
and  looking  back  at  him  with  blinded  eyee,  and  steal- 
ing timidly  away,  passed  out  of  his  room,  and  crossed 
the  other  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he 
may.  But  let  nim  look  for  that  slight  figure  when  he 
wares,  and  find  it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence  as  she 
crept  up-stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  grown  more  dis- 
mal since  she  came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been 
looking  on,  in  the  dead  of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to 
her  of  death  and  life  in  one.  The  secrecy  and  silence 
of  her  own  proceeding  made  the  night  secret,  silent, 
and  oppressive.  She  felt  unwilling,  almost  unable,  to 
go  on  to  her  own  chamber:  and  turning  into  the  draw- 
ing-rooms, where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining  through 
the  blinds,  looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked 
pale,  and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a  dis- 
tant glimmer  of  something  that  was  not  quite  darkness, 
rather  than  of  light,  in  the  sky;  and  foreboding  night 
was  shivering  and  restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make 
a  troubled  end.  Florence  remembered  how,  as  a 
watcher  by  a  sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this  bleak 
time,  and  felt  its  influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden  natural 
antipathy  to  it;  and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  mama  had  not  come  to  her  room  that  night, 
which  was  one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her 
bed.  In  her  general  uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her 
ardent  longing  to  have  somebody  to  speak  to,  and  to 
break  this  spell  of  gloom  and  silence,  Florence  directed 
her  steps  towards  the  chamber  where  she  slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded 
smoothly  to  her  hesitating  hand.  She  was  surprised  to 
find  a  bright  light  burning;  still  more  surprised,  on 
looking  in,  to  see  that  her  mama,  but  partially  un- 
dressed, was  sitting  near  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  which 
had  crumbled  and  dropped  away.  Her  eyes  were  in- 
tently bent  upon  the  air;  and  in  their  light,  and  in  her 
face,  and  in  her  form,  and  in  the  grasp  with  which  she 
hpld    the  elbows  of   her  chair  as  if  abou\.  \o   %\«rt. 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

up,  Florence  saw  such  fierce  emotion  that  it  terrified 
her. 

"  Mama! "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter! " 

Edith  started;  looking  at  her  with  such  a  Strang)* 
dread  in  her  face,  that  Florence  was  more  frightened 
than  before. 

"  Mama:  "  said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.  "  Dear 
mama!  what  is  the  matterl " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  "  I  have  had 
bad  dreams,  my  love." 

"  And  not  yet  been  to  bed,  mama?" 

"  No,"  she  returned.     "  Half-waking  dreams." 

Her  features  graduallv  softened;  and  suffering  Flor- 
ence to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she 
said  in  a  tender  manner,  '•But  what  does  my  bird  do 
here!    What  does  my  bird  do  here!" 

"  I  have  been  uneasy,  mama,  in  not  seeing  you  to- 
night, and  in  not  knowing  how  papa  was;  and  I — " 

Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more, 

"  Is  it  late? ''  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the 
curls  that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and 
strayed  upon  her  face. 

"Very  late.     Near  day." 

"  Near  day  I "  she  repeated  in  surprise. 

"Dear  mama,  what  nave  you  done  to  your  hand?'' 
said  Florence. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was 
a  sort  of  wild  avoidance  in  it)  as  before;  but  she 
presently  said,  "Nothing,  nothing.  A  blow."  And 
then  she  said,  "My  Florence!"  And  then  her  bosom 
heaved,  and  she  wjis  weeping  passionately. 

"Mamal"8aid  Florence.  "Oh  mama,  what  can! 
do,  what  should  I  do,  to  make  us  happier?  Is  there 
anything?  " 

*'  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that?  Can  it  never  be?  If  1 
speak  now  of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of 
what  we  have  agreed,"  said  Florence,  "you  will  not 
blame  me,  will  you?" 

"It  is  useless,'  she  replied,  "useless.  I  have  told 
you,  dear,  that  I  have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can 
change  them,  or  prevent  their  coming  back." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  185 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Florence,  gazing  on  her 
agitated  face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  she  looked. 

"I  have  dreamed,"  said  Edith  in  a  low  voice,  "of 
a  pride  that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful 
for  evil;  of  a  pride  that  has  been  galled  and  goaded, 
through  many  shameful  years,  and  has  never  recoiled 
except  upon  itself;  a  pride  that  has  debased  its  owner 
with  the  consciousness  of  deep  humiliation,  and  never 
helped  its  owner  boldly  to  resent  it  or  avoid  it,  or  to 
say,  SThis  shall  not  be!' a  pride  that,  rightly  guided, 
might  have  led  perhaps  to  better  things,  but  which, 
misdirected  and  perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to 
the  same  possessor,  has  been  self -contempt,  mere 
hardihood  and  ruin." 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  but 
went  on  as  if  she  were  alone. 

"I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "of  such  indifference 
and  callousness,  arising  from  this  self-contempt;  this 
wretched,  inefficient,  miserable  pride;  that  it  has  gone 
on  with  listless  steps  even  to  the  altar,  yielding  to  the 
old,  familiar,  beckoning  finger, — oh  mother,  oh  mother! 
— while  it  spumed  it:  anil  willing  to  be  hateful  to 
itself  for  once  and  for  all,  rather  than  to  be  stung 
daily  in  some  new  form.     Mean,  poor  thing! " 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  emotion,  she 
looked  as  she  had  looked  when  Florence  entered. 

"  Apd  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  that  in  a  first  late 
effort  to  achieve  a  purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and 
trodden  down  by  a  base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon 
him.  I  have  dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set 
upon  by  dogs,  but  that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not 
yield;  no,  that  it  cannot  if  it  would;  but  that  it  is  urged 
on  to  hate  him,  rise  against  him,  and  defy  him!  " 

Her  clenched  hana  tightened  on  the  trembhng  arm 
she  had  in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed 
and  wondering  face,  her  own  subsided.  "  Oh,  Flor- 
ence!" she  said,  "I  think  I  have  been  nearly  mad 
to-night!"  and  humbled  her  proud  head  upon  her  neck, 
and  wept  again. 

"  Don't  leave  me!  be  near  me!  I  have  no  hope  but  in 
you! "    These  words  she  said  a  score  of  times. 

Soon  she  grew  calmer,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the 
tears  of  Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely 
hours.    And  the  day  now  dawning,  Edith,  lci\4.fti Vfex -v-cv 


186  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

her  arms  and  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  iw( 
lyiog  down  herself,  sat  by  her,  and  bade  her  try  to 
sleep, 

"For  you  are  weary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and 
should  rest." 

"I  am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  mama,  to-night,"  said 
Florence.     But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too." 

"  Not  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  me,  sweet." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Florefcce,  worn  out. 
gradually  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber;  but  as  hep  eyes 
closed  on  the  face  beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think 
upon  the  face  down-staiPB,  that  her  hand  drew  closer  to 
Edith  for  some  comfort;  yet,  even  in  the  act,  it  faltered, 
lest  it  should  be  deserting  him.  So,  in  her  sleep,  she 
tried  to  reconcile  the  two  together,  and  to  show  them 
that  she  loved  them  both,  but  could  not  do  it,  and  her 
waking  grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 

Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes 
lying  wet  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentle- 
ness and  pity,  for  she  knew  the  truth.  But  no  sleep 
hung  upon  her  own  ej^es.  As  the  day  came  on  she  stiD 
sat  watching  and  waking,  with  the  placid  hand  in  hers, 
and  sometimes  whispered,  as  she  looked  at  the  hushed 
face,  "  Be  near  me,  Florence,  I  have  no  hope  but  in 
you! " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  SEPARATION. 

With  the  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose 
Miss  Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a  heaviness  in  this 
young  maiden  s  exceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that 
abated  somewhat  of  their  sparkling,  and  suggested — 
which  was  not  their  usual  character — the  possibility  of 
their  being  sometimes  shut.  There  was  likewise  a 
swollen  look  about  them,  as  if  they  had  been  crying 
over-night.  But  the  Nipper,  so  far  from  being  cast 
down,  was  singularly  brist  and  bold,  and  all  her  ener- 

¥les  appeared  to  be  braced   up   for  some  great  feat. 
his  was  noticeable  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  much 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  187 

more  tight  and  trim  than  usual;  and  in  occasional 
twitches  of  her  head  as  she  went  ahout  the  house, 
which  were  mightily  expressive  of  determination. 

In  a  word,  she  had  formed  a  determination,  and  an 
aspiring  one:  it  being  nothing  less  than  this — ^to  pene- 
trate to  Mr,  Dombey  s  presence,  and  have  speech  of 
that  gentleman  alone.  "  I  have  often  said  I  would,"  she 
remarked  in  a  threatening  manner,  to  herself,  that  morn- 
ing, with  many  twitches  of  her  head,  "  and  now  I  will.' " 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this 
desperate  design,  with  a  sharpness  that  was  peculiar  to 
herself,  Susan  Nipper  liaunted  the  hall  and  staircase 
during  the  whole  forenoon,  witliout  finding  a  favorable 
opportunity  for  tlie  assault.  Not  at  all  baffled  by  this 
discomfiture,  which  indeed  had  a  stimulating  effect, 
and  puttier  on  her  mettle,  she  diminished  nothing  of 
her  vigilance;  and  at  last  discovered,  towards  evenmg, 
that  her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  pretence  of  hav- 
ing sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her  own  room,  and 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa,  unattended. 

With  a  twitch — not  of  her  head  merely,  this  time,  but 
of  her  whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiptoe  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  door,  and  knocked.  "Come  in!  '  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  Susan  encouraged  herself  with  a  final  twitch, 
and  went  in. 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  eyeing  the  fire,  gave  an 
amazed  look  at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a  little  on 
his  arm.    The  Nipper  dropped  a  curtsey. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said 
Susan. 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating 
the  words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the 
presumption  of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of 
giving  them  utterance. 

"  Ihave  been  in  your  service,  sir,"  said  Susan  Nipper, 
with  her  usual  rapidity,  "now  twelve  years  a  waiting 
on  Miss  Floy  my  own  young  lady  who  couldn't  speak 
plain  when  I  first  come  here  and  I  was  old  in  this  house 
when  Mrs.  Richards  was  new,  I  may  not  be  Meetho- 
salem,  but  I  am  not  a  child  in  arms." 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  at  her 
offered  no  comment  ou  this  preparatory  statement  of 
facts. 


188  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  There  never  was  a  dearer  or  a  blesseder  young  lady 
than  is  my  young  ladr,  sir,"  said  Susan,  "  and  I  ought 
to  know  a  great  deal  Better  than  some  for  I  have  seen 
her  in  her  grief  and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there's 
not  been  much  of  it)  and  I  hare  seen  her  with  her 
brother  and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  loneliness  and  some 
have  never  seen  her,  and  I  say  to  some  and  all — I.dol" 
and  here  the  black -eyed  shook  her  head,  and  slightly 
stamped  her  foot;  "  that  she's  the  blessedest  find  dearest 
angel  is  Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life, 
the  more  that  I  was  torn  to  pieces  sir  the  more  I'd  say 
it  though  I  may  not  be  a  Fox's  Martyr." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made 
him,  with  inaignation  and  astonishment:  and  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his 
ears  too,  of  playing  him  false.  • 

"  No  oue  could  be  anything  but  true  and  faithful  to 
Miss  Floy,  sir,"  pursued  Susan,  "and  I  take  no  merit 
for  my  service  of  twelve  year,  for  I  love  her — yes,  I  say 
to  some  and  all  I  do! " — and  here  the  black-eyed  shook 
her  head  again,  and  slightly  stamped  her  foot  again, 
and  checked  a  sob;  "  but  true  and  faithful  service  gives 
me  right  to  speak  I  hope,  and  speak  I  must  and  will 
now,  right  or  wrong." 

"What  do  you  mean,  woman!"  said  Mr.  Domhey. 
glaring  at  her.     "  How  do  you  dare?" 

"  what  I  mean,  sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offence,  but  out,  and  how  I  dare  I  know  not  but  I  dol" 
said  Susan.  "Oh!  you  don't  know  my  young'  lady  sir 
you  don't  indeed,  you'd  never  know  so  little  of  her,  if 
you  did." 

Mr.  Domhey,  in  a  fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell- 
rope:  but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  that  side  of  the  fire, 
and  he  could  not  rise  and  cross  to  the  othpr  without  as- 
sistance. The  quick  eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  his 
helplessness  immediately,  and  now,  as  she  afterwards 
observed,  she  felt  she  had  got  him. 

"  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper.  "  is  the  most  devoted 
and  most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of 
daughters,  there  an't  no  gentleman,  no  sir,  though  as 
great  and  rich  as  all  the  greatest  and  richest  of  England 
put  together,  but  might  be  proud  of  her  and  would  and 
ought.  If  he  knew  lier  value  right,  he'd  rather  lose  his 
greatness  and  his  fortune  piece  by  piece  and  beg  his 


Lioogk 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  180 

way  in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I  say  to  some  and  all, 
he  wouldl  cried  Susan  Nipper,  bursting  into  tears, 
"  than  bring  tbe  sorrow  on  her  tender  heart  that  I  have 
seen  it  suffer  in  this  house  I" 

"Woman,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  "leave  the  room." 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I  am  to  leave  the 
situation,  sir,"  replied  the  steadfast  Nipper,  "in  which 
I  have  been  so  many  years  and  seen  so  much — although 
I  hope  you'd  never  nave  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss 
Floy  for  such  a  cause— will  I  go  now  till  I  have  said 
the  rest,  I  may  not  be  a  Indian  widow  sir  and  I  am  not 
and  I  would  not  so  become  but  if  I  once  made  up  my 
mind  to  burn  myself  alive,  I'd  do  it!  And  I've  made  my 
mind  up  to  go  on." 

Whicn  was  rendered  no  less  clear  by  the  expression 
of  Susan  Nipper's  countenance,  than  by  her  words. 

"There  ant  a  person  in  your  service,  sir,"  pursued 
the  black-eyed,  "  that  has  always  stood  more  in  awe  of 
you  than  me  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  when  I 
make  so  bold  as  to  say  that  I  have  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  times  thought  of  speaking  to  you  and  never 
been  able  to  make  my  mind  up  to  it  till  last  night,  but 
last  night  decided  of  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  made  another 
grasp  at  the  bell-rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its  ■ 
absence,  pulled  hia  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  Miss  Floy  strive 
and  strive  when  nothing  but  a  child  so  sweet  and 
patient  that  the  best  of  women  might  have  copied  from 
her,  I've  seen  her  sitting  night  together  half  the  night 
through  to  help  her  delicate  brother  with  his  learning, 
I've  seen  her  helping  him  and  watching  him  at  other 
times — some  well  know  when — I've  seen  her,  with  no 
encouragement  and  no  help,  grow  up  to  be  a  lady,  thank 
God!  that  is  the  grace  and  pride  of  every  company  she 

foes  in,  and  I've  always  seen  her  cruelly  neglected  and 
eenly  feeling  of  it — I  say  to  some  and  all,  I  have! — 
and  never  said  one  word,  but  ordering  one's  self  lowly 
and  reverently  towards  one's  betters,  is  not  to  be  a 
worshipper  of  graven  images,  and  I  will  and  must 
speak 1 

"  Is  there  anybody  there! "  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  calling 
out.  "  "Where  are  the  men?  where  are  the  women!  Is 
there  no  one  there! " 


I'M  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night." 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  "  and  I  knew  why.  foryoD 
was  ill  sir  and  she  didn't  know  how  ill  and  that  was 
enough  to  make  her  wretched  as  I  savr  it  did. — I  maj 
not  be  a  peacock;  but  I  have  my  eyes — and  I  sat  up  a 
little  in  my  own  room,  thinking  she  might  be  loDPSome 
and  might  want  me,  and  I  saw  her  steal  down-staiis 
and  come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was  a  guilty  thing  to  look 
at  her  own  pa,  and  then  steal  back  figain  and  go  into 
them  lonely  drawing-rooms,  a-crying  so,  that  I  could 
hardly  bear  to  hear  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  hear  it,"  said 
Susan  Nipper,  wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing  than 
undauntedly  on  Mr.  Dombey's  infuriated  face.  "  Its 
not  the  first  time  I  have  heard  it,  not  by  many  and 
many  a  time  you  don't  know  your  own  daughter,  sir, 
you  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  sir,  I  say  to  some 
and  all,"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  final  burst,  "  that  it's 
a  sinful  shame!" 

"  Why,  hoity,  toity!"  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipcbin, 
as  the  black  bombazeen  garments  of  that  fair  Peruvian 
Miner  swept  into  the  room.     "  What's  this,  indeedl" 

Susan  favored  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a  look  she  had  in- 
vented expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became 
acquainted,  and  "resigned  the  reply  to  Ifr.  Dombey. 

'■What's  this!"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey  almost  foam- 
ing, "  What's  this,  madam?  You  who  are  at  the  head 
of  this  household,  and  bound  to  keep  it  in  order,  have 
reason  to  inquire.     Do  you  know  this  woman?  " 

"I  know  very  little  good  of  her,  sir,"  croaked  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  "  How  dare  you  come  here,  you  hussy?  Go 
along  with  you," 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honoring  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin with  another  look,  remained. 

"  Do  you  call  it  managing  this  estabhshment,  mad- 
am," said  Mr.  Dombey,  ''to  leave  a  person  like  this  at 
liberty  to  come  and  talk  to  vie!  A  gentleman^n  his 
own  house — in  his  own  room — assailed  with  the  imperti- 
oences  of  women  servants!  " 

"  Well  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance  in 
her  hard  grey  eye,  "I  exceedingly  deplore  it:  nothing 
can  be  more  irregular;  nothing  can  be  more  out  of  all 
hounds  and  reason;  but  I  regret  to  say,  sir,  that  this 
young  woman  is  quite  beyond  control.  She  has  been 
spoiled  by  Miss  Dorabey,  and  is  amenable  to  nobody. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  VM 

You  know  you're  not,"  said  Mre.  Pipchin,  sharply,  and 
shaking  her  head  at  Susan  Nipper.  "For  shame,  you 
hussyl    Go  along  with  you!" 

"  If  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be 
controlled,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning 
back  towards  the  fire,  "you  know  what  to  do  with  them, 
I  presume.  You  know  what  you  are  here  for?  Take 
her  aw^! " 

"Sir,  I  know  what  to  do," retorted  Mre.  Pipchin,  "and 
of  course  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,"  snapping  her  up 
particularly  short,  "a  month's  warning  from  this  hour. 

"  Oh  indeed! "  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

"Yes,"  returned  Mrs,  Pipchin,  "and  don't  smile  at 
me,  you  minx,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why!  Go  along 
with  you  this  minute!" 

"  I  intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it," 
said  the  voluble  Nipper.  "I  have  been  in  this  house 
■waiting  on  my  young  lady  a  dozen  year  and  I  won't 
stop  in  it  one  hour  under  notice  from  a  person  owning 
to  the  name  of  Pipchin,  trust  me,  Mrs.  P. 

"  A  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish! "  said  that  wrathful 
old  lady.  "  Get  along  with  you,  or  I'll  have  you  carried 
out!" 

"  My  comfort  is,"  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr,  Dom- 
bey, "  that  I  have  told  a  piece  of  truth  this  day  which 
ought  to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can't  be  told 
too  often  or  too  plain  and  that  no  amount  of  Pipchinses 
— I  hope  tlie  number  of  'em  mayn't  be  great "  (here  Mrs. 
Pipchm  uttered  a  very  sharp  "Go  along  with  you!  "and 
Miss  Nipper  repeated  the  look)  "  can  unsay  what  I  have 
said,  though  they  gave  a  whole  year  full  of  warnings 
beginning  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  and  never  leav- 
ing off  tin  twelve  at  night  and  died  of  the  exhaustion 
which  would  be  a  Jubilee!" 

With  these  words.  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  out 
of  the  room;  and  walking  up-stairs  to  her  own  apart- 
ment in  great  state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  of 
the  ireful  Pipchin,  sat  down  among  her  boxes  and 
began  to  cry. 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a 
very  wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin  outside  the  door. 

"  Does  that  bold-faced  slut,"  said  the  fell  Pipchin. 
"  intend  to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not!'" 


VJ2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person 
described  did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but 
that  her  name  was  Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found 
in  the  housekeeper's  room. 

"You  saucy  W^agel"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rat- 
tling at  the  handle  of  the  door.  "  Gk>  along  with  toq 
this  minute.  Pack  up  your  things  directly  I  How  dare 
you  talk  in  this  way  to  a  gentlewoman  who  htis  seen 
better  days?" 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle,  that 
she  pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin; 
and  that  for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in 
the  year  to  be  about  that  lady's  mark,  except  that  they 
were  much  t^  good  for  her. 

"  But  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  make  a  noise  at 
my  door,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  nor  to  contaminate  the 
keyhole  with  your  eyej  I'm  packing  up  and  going  you 
may  take  your  affidavit." 

The  Dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this 
intelligence,  and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young 
hussies  as  a  race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits 
after  being  spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  withdrew  to  pre- 
pare the  Nipper's  wages,  Susan  then  bestirred  herself 
to  get  her  trunks  in  order,  that  she  might  take  an  im- 
meaiate  and  dignified  departure;  sobbing  heartily  eill 
the  time,  as  she  thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to 
her,  for  the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan 
Nipper  had  had  a  disturbance  with  Mrs,  Pipchin,  and 
that  they  had  both  appealed  to  Mr,  Dombey,  and  that 
there  had  been  an  unprecedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  and  that  Susan  was  going.  The  latter 
part  of  this  confused  rumor,  Florence  found  to  be  so 
correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the  last  trunk  and  was 
sitting  upon  it  with  her  bonnet  on  when  she  came  into 
her  room. 

"Susan!  "  cried  Florence.   "Going  to  leave  me!  You!" 

"  Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake,  Miss  Floy,''  said 
Susan  sobbing,  "  don't  speak  a  word  to  me  or  I  shall  de- 
mean myself  before  them  Pi-i-pchinses,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  'em  see  me  erf.  Miss  Ploy,  for  worlds! " 

" Susan  1"  said  Florence.  "My  dear  girl,  my  old 
friend!  What  shall  I  do  without  you!  Can  you  bear  to 
go  away  so?" 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  l'J3 

"  No-n-o-o,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I  can't  in- 
deed," sobbed  Susan.  "But  it  can't  be  helped;  I've 
done  my  duty,  miss,  I  have  indeed.  It's  no  fault  of 
mine.  I  am  quite  resi-igned.  I  couldn't  stay  my  month 
or  I  could  never  leave  you  then,  my  darling,  and  I  must 
at  last  as  well  as  at  first;  don't  speak  to  me.  Miss  Floy, 
for  though  I'm  pretty  firm  I'm  not  a  marble  doorpost, 
my  own  dear," 

"What  is  it!  Why  is  it?"  said  Florence.  "Won't 
you  tell  me?"    For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 

"  No-n-no,  my  darling,"  returned  Susan.  "  Don't  ask 
me,  for  I  musn  t,  and  whatever  you  do,  don't  put  in  a 
word  for  me  to  stop,  for  it  couldn't  be  and  you'd  only 
wrong  yourself;  and  as  God  bless  you,  mjfcwn  precious, 
and  forgive  me  any  liarm  I  have  done,  or  any  temper  I 
have  showed  in  all  these  many  years!  " 

With  which  entreaty,  very  heartily  delivered,  Susan 
hugged  her  mistress  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling,  there's  a  many  that  may  come  to  serve 
you  and  be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who'll  serve  you  well 
and  true,"  said  Susan,  "but  there  can't  be  one  who'll 
serve  you  so  affectionate  as  me  or  love  you  half  as 
dearly,  that's  my  comfort.  Go-ood  by,  sweet  Miss 
Floy!" 

"Where  will  you  go,  Susan?"  asked  her  weeping 
mistress. 

"  I've  got  a  brother  down  in  the  country  miss — a 
farmer  in  Essex,"  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  "that 
keeps  ever  so  many  co-o-ows  and  pigs  ana  I  shall  go 
down  there  by  the  coach  and  sto-op  with  him,  and  don't 
mind  me,  for  I've  got  mon'ey  in  the  Savings'  BankS;  my 
dear,  and  needn't  take  anotlier  service  just  yet,  which  I 
couldn't,  couldn't,  couldn't  do,  my  heart's  own  mistress!  " 
Susan  finished  with  a  burst  of  sorrow,  which  was  oppor- 
tunely broken  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipehin  talking  down- 
stairs; on  hearing  which,  she  dried  her  red  and  swollen 
eyes,  and  made  a  melancholy  feint  of  calling  jauntily  to 
Mr.  "rowlinson  to  fetch  a  cab  and  carry  down  ner  boxea 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  distressed,  but  with- 
held from  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread 
of  causing  any  new  division  between  her  fatner  and  his 
wife  (whose  stern,  indignant  face  had  been  r.  warning 
to  her  a  few  moments  since),  and  by  her  apprehensioia. 
of  being  in  some  way  unconsciously  coimecXja^  ^t^ia^-^ 


194  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant  and  friend,  fol- 
lowed, weeping,  down-stairs  to  Edith's  dressing-room, 
whither  Susan  hetook  herself  to  make  her  parting 
curtsey, 

"  Now,  here's  the  cah,  and  here's  the  boxes,  get  along 
with  you,  do! "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  herself  at 
the  same  moment.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but 
Mr.  Dombey's  orders  are  imperative." 

Edith,  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — she  was 
going  out  to  dinner — preserved  her  haughty  face,  and 
took  not  the  least  notice. 

"  There's  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who,  in 

Sursuance  of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the 
[ines,  was  ^customed  to  rout  the  servants  about,  as 
she  had  roured  her  young  Brighton  boarders;  to  the 
everlasting  acidulation  of  Master  Bitherstone,  "and 
the  sooner  this  house  sees  your  back  the  better." 

Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for  the  look  that  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  right;  so  she  dropped  her  curtsey  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  {who  inclined  her  head  without  one  word 
and  whose  eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence),  and 
gave  one  last  parting  hug  to  her  young  mistress,  and 
received  lier  parting  embrace  in  return.  Poor  Susan's 
face  at  this  crisis,  m  the  intensity  of  her  feelings  and 
the  determined  suffocation  of  her  sobs,  lest  one  should 
become  audible  and  be  a  triumph  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  pre- 
sented a  series  of  the  most  extraordinary  physiognomical 
phenomena  ever  witnessed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  TowHnson, 
outside  the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence.  ■ 
"but  Mr,  Toots  is  in  the  dining-room,  and  sends  his 
compliments,   and  begs  to  know  how  Diogenes   and 
master  is." 

Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out,  and  hastened 
down-stairs,  where  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid 
vestments,  was  breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and 
agitation  on  the  siibject  of  her  coming. 

"Oh,  how  de  do.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr,  Toots, 
"  God  bless  my  soull  " 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Toots's 
deep  concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence's  face: 
which  caused  him  to  stop  short  in  a  fit  of  chuckles,  and 
become  an  image  of  despair. 

"  Dear  Mr,  Toots,"  saio  Elorence,  "  you  are  so  friendly 

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DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  196 

to  me,  and  bo  honest,  that  I  am  sure  I  may  ask  a  favor 
of  you." 

"  Miss  Domhey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "if  you'll  only 
name  one,  you'll — you'll  give  me  an  appetite.  To 
which,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  some  sentiment,  "I  have 
long  been  a  stranger." 

"Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest 
friend  I  have,"  said  Florence,  "  is  about  to  leave  here 
suddenly,  and  quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going 
home,  a  little  way  into  the  country.  Might  I  ask  you 
to  take  care  of  her  until  she  is  in  the  coach?" 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  really  do 
me  an  honor  and  a  kindness.  This  proof  of  your  confi- 
dence, after  the  manner  in  which  I  was  Beast  enough 
to  conduct  myself  at  Brighton — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly — '"  no — ^don't  think  of 
that.  Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to — to  go? 
and  to  be  ready  to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out? 
Thank  you  a  thousand  times!  You  ease  my  mind  so 
much.  She  doesn't  seem  so  desolate.  You  cannot  think 
how  grateful  I  feel  to  you,  or  what  a  good  friend  I  am 
sure  you  are! "  And  Florence,  in  her  earnestness, 
thanked  him  again  and  again;  and  Mr.  Toots,  in  hie 
earnestness,  hurried  away — but  backwards,  that  he 
might  lose  no  glimpse  of  her. 

Florence  had  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw 
poor  Susan  in  the  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  her 
forth,  and  Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  territying 
Mrs.  Pipchin  to  the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her 
bombazeen  skirts,  and  howling  witii  anguish  at  the 
sound  of  her  voice — for  the  good  duenna  was  the  dear- 
est and  most  cherished  aversion  of  his  breast.  But  she 
saw  Susan  shake  hands  with  the  servants  all  round, 
and  turn  once  to  look  at  her  old  home;  and  she  saw 
Diogenes  bound  out  after  the  cab  and  want  to  follow  it, 
and  testify  an  impossibility  of  conviction  that  he  had 
no  longer  any  property  in  the  fare;  and  the  door  was 
shut,  and  the  nurry  over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast  for 
the  loss  of  an  old  friend,  whom  no  one  could  replace. 
No  one.     No  one. 

Mr,  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped 
the  cabriolet  in  a  twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of 
his  commission,  at  which  she  cried  more  than  before. 

"Upon  my  soul  and  body!"saidMr.  Toots, ta.k.va^'sas. 


196  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

seat  beside  her,  "I  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word  and 
honor  I  think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feelings 
better  than  I  imagine  them.  I  can  conceive  nothing 
more  dreadful  than  to  have  to  leave  Miss  Dombey." 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it 
really  was  touching  to  see  her. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  now,  don't!  at  least  I  mean 
now  do,  you  know! " 

"  Do  wnat,  Mr.  Toots?"  cried  Susan. 

"  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  have  some  din- 
ner before  you  start,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  '-My  cook's  a 
most  respectable  woman — one  of  the  most  motherly  peo- 
ple I  ever  saw — and  she'll  be  delighted  to  make  you 
comfortable.  Her  son,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  addi- 
tional recommendation,  "  was  educated  in  the  Blue-coat 
School,  and  blown  up  in  a  powder-mill." 

Susan  acceptinjg  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted 
her  to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the 
matron  in  question  who  fully  justified  his  character  of 
her,  and  by  the  Chicken  who  at  first  supposed,  on  see- 
ing a  lady  in  the  vehicle,  that  Mr.  Dombey  bad  b^n 
doubled  up,  agreeably  to  his  old  recommendation,  and 
Miss  Dombey  abducted.  This  gentleman  awakened  in 
Misa  Nipper  some  considerable  astonishment;  for,  hav- 
ing been  defeated  by  the  Larkey  boy,  his  visage  was  in 
a  state  of  such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be  hardly  pre- 
sentable in  society,  with  comfort  to  the  beholders.  The 
Chicken  himself  attributed  this  punishment  to  his  hav- 
ing had  the  misfortune  to  get  mto  Chancery  early  in 
the  proceedings,  when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by  the 
Larkey  one,  and  heavily  grassed.  But  it  appeared  from 
the  published  records  of  that  great  contest  tliat  the 
Larkey  boy  had  had  it  all  his  own  way  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  that  the  Cliicken  had  been  tapped,and  bunged, 
and  had  received  pepper,  and  had  been  made  gro^y, 
and  had  come  up  piping,  and  had  endured  a  compTit^- 
tion  of  similar  strange  inconveniences,  until  be  had 
been  gone  into  and  finished. 

After  a  good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set 
out  for  the  coach-office  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr. 
Toots  inside,  as  before,  and  the  Chicken  on  the  box. 
who,  whatever  distinction  he  conferred  on  the  little 
party  by  the  moral  weight  and  heroism  of  his  character, 
was  scarcely  ornamental  to  it,  physically  speaking,  on 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  197 

account  of  his  plasters;  which  were  numerous.  But 
the  Chicken  had  registered  a  vow,  in  secret,  that  he 
would  never  leave  Mr.  Toots  (who  was  secretly  pining 
to  get  rid  of  him),  for  any  less  consideration  than  the 

goodwill  and  fixtures  of  a  puhlic-house;  and  heing  am- 
itious  to  go  into  that  line  and  drink  himself  to  death 
as  soon  as  possible,  he  felt  it  his  cue  to  make  his  com- 
pany unacceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go,  was  on 
the  point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  in- 
side, lingered  by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the 
driver  was  about  to  mount;  when,  standing  on  the  step, 
and  putting  in  a  face  that  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was 
anxious  and  confused,  he  said  abruptly: 

"I  say,  Susan!  Miss  Dombey,  you  know — " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could—you  know — eh?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Susan,  "but  I 
don't  hear  you.'' 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know — not 
exactly  at  once,  but  in  time — in  a  long  time— to — to  love 
me,  you  know!    There!"  said  poor  Mr.  Toots. 

"Oh  dear  no!  "returned  Susan,  shaking  her  head.  "I 
should  say  never.     Ne^ver! " 

"  Thank'eel "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  It's  of  no  consequence. 
Good  night.    It's  of  no  consequence,  thank'eel " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  TRUSTV  AGENT. 

Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  home 
early.  It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock 
w^hen  her  carriage  rolled  along  the-  street  in  which  she 
lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face 
that  there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing;  and  the 
wreath  upon  her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and 
steady  brow.  But  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
seen  its  leaves  and  flowers  reft  into  fragments  b^  K^'s 


198  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

passionate  hand,  or  rendered  Bhapeless  by  the  fitful 
searches  of  a  throbbing  and  bewildered  brain  for  any 
resting  place,  than  adorning  such  tranquillity.  So  ob- 
durate, so  unapproachable,  so  unrelenting,  one  would 
have  thought  that  nothing  could  soften  sucn  a  woman's 
nature,  and  that  everything  in  life  had  hardened  it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  was  alighting,  when 
some  one  coming  quietly  from  the  hall,  and  standing 
bareheaded,  offered  her  his  arm.  The  servant  being 
thrust  aside,  she  had  no  choice  but  to  touch  it;  and  she 
then  knew  whose  arm  it  was. 

"How  is  your  patient,  sir?  "she  said,  with  a  curled 
lip. 

"  He  is  better,"  returned  Carker,  "  He  is  doing  very 
well.     I  have  left  him  for  the  night." 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  the  staircase, 
when  he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottom: 

"Madam!  May  I  beg  the  favor  of  a  minute's  audi- 
ence ?  " 

She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  "  It  is  an  un- 
seasonable time,  sir,  and  I  am  fatigued.  Is  your  busi- 
ness urgent?" 

"  It  is  very  urgent,"  returned  Carker.  "  As  I  am  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  peti- 
tion. " 

She  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  his  glistening 
mouth;  and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  above  him  in 
her  stately  dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful  she 
was, 

"Where  is  Miss  Dombey?"she  asked  the  servant, 
aloud, 

"  In  the  morning  room,  ma'am," 

"  Show  the  way  therel "  Turning  her  eyes  a^in  on 
the  attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
informing  him  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  head  that  he 
was  at  liberty  to  follow,  she  passed  on, 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  madam!  Mrs,  Dombey!"  cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Oarker,  at  her  side  in  a  moment 
"May  I  be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  is  not 
present? " 

She  confronted  him,  with  a  quick  look,  but  with  the 
same  self-possession  and  steadiness. 

"  I  would  spare  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Carker,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  the  knowledge  of  what  I  have  to  say.    At  least. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  199 

madam,  I  would  leave  it  to  70U  to  decide  whether  she 
shall  know  of  it  or  not.  I  owe  that  to  you.  It  is  my 
bounden  duty  to  you.  After  our  former  interview,  it 
would  be  monstrous  in  me  if  I  did  otherwise." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  tum- 
ingtothe  servant,  said;  "Some  other  room,"  He  led 
the  way  to  a  drawing-room,  which  he  speedily  lighted 
up,  and  then  left  them.  While  Jie  remained,  not  a  word 
was  spoken,  Edith  enthroned  herself  upon  a  couch  by 
the  fire;  and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and 
his  eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet,  stood  before  her,  at  some 
little  distance. 

"  Before  I  hear  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  when  the  door 
was  closed,  "  I  wish  you  to  hear  me." 

"To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombev,"  he  returned, 
"  even  in  accents  of  unmerited  reproacn,  is  an  honor  I 
so  greatly  esteem  that  although  I  were  not  her  servant  in 
all  things,  I  should  defer  to  such  a  wish,  most  readily." 

"  If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom  you  have  just 
now  left,  sir; ''  Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  counterfeit  surprise,  but  she  met  them,  and 
stopped  him,  if  such  were  his  intention;  "with  any 
message  to  me,  do  not  attempt  to  deliver  it,  for  I  will 
not  receive  it.  I  need  scarcely  ask  you  if  you  are  come 
on  such  an  errand.     I  have  expected  you  some  time." 

"It  is  my  misfortune;"  he  replied,  "to  be  here  wholly 
against  mv  will  for  such  a  purpose.  Allow  me  to  say 
that  I  am  nere  for  two  purposes.     That  is  one," 

"  That  one.  sir,"  she  returned,  "  is  ended.  Or,  if  you 
return  to  it — " 

"Can  Mrs,  Dombev  believe,"  said  Carker,  coming 
nearer,  "that  I  would,  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her 
prohibition?  Is  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  having 
no  regard  to  my  unfortunate  position,  is  so  determined 
to  consider  me  inseparable  from  my  instructor  as  to  do 
me  great  and  wilful  injustice?  " 

"Sir,"  returned  Edith,  bending  her  dark  gaze  full 
upon  him,  and  speaking  with  a  nsing  passion  that  in- 
flated her  proud  nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and 
stirred  the  delicate  white  down  upon  a  robe  she  wore, 
thrown  loosely  over  shoulders  that  could  bear  its  snowy 
nei^borhood.  "Why  do  you  present  yourself  tome, 
as  you  have  done,  and  speak  to  me  of  love  and  duty  to 
my  husband,  and  pretend  to  think  ths.'t  1  axa  Va.'vv'^ 


r.'iHj  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

married,  and  that  I  honor  him?  How  dare  you  venture 
so  to  affront  me,  when  you  know — /  do  not  know  better, 
sir:  I  have  seeit  it  in  your  every  glance,  and  heard  it  in 
your  every  word — that  in  place  of  affection  between  us 
there  is  aversion  and  contempt,  and  that  I  despise  him 
hardly  less  than  I  despise  myself  for  being  his'  hi- 
justicel  If  I  had  done  justice  to  the  torment  you  have 
made  me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult  you  have 
put  upon  me,  I  should  have  slain  you!" 

She  had  asked  him  why  he  did  this.  Had  she  not 
been  blinded  by  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humilia- 
tion,— which  she  was,  fiercely  as  shehent  her  ^azeupon 
him, — she  would  have  seen  the  answer  in  hia  face.  To 
bring  her  to  this  declaration. 

She  saw  it  now,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there 
or  no.  She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she 
had  undergone,  and  had  to  undergo,  and  was  writhing 
under  then.  As  she  sat  looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather 
than  at  him,  she  plucked  the  feathers  from  a  pinion  of 
some  rare  and  beautiful  bird,  which  hung  from  her 
wrist  by  a  golden  thread,  to  serve  her  as  a  fan,  and 
rained  them  on  the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until 
such  outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her 
control  subsided,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his 
sufficient  reply  in  reserve  and  would  presently  deliver 
it.  And  he  then  spoke,  looking  straiglit  into  ner  kind- 
ling eyes. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  know,  and  knew  before  to- 
day, that  I  have  found  no  favor  with  you:  and  I  knew 
why.  Yes,  I  knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly 
to  me;  I  am  so  relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  con- 
fidence-—" 

"  Confidence! "  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 

He  passed  it  over, 

"  — that  I  will  make  no  pretence  of  concealment,  I 
did  see  from  the  first,  that  there  was  no  affection  on 
vour  part,  for  Mr,  Dombey^how  could  it  possibly  exist 
between  such  different  subjects!  And  I  h<ive  seen, 
since,  that  stronger  feelings  than  indifference  have  been 
engendered  in  your  breast — how  could  that  possibly  be 
otherwise,  either,  circumstanced  as  you  nave  been. 
But  was  it  for  me  to  presume  to  avow  this  knowledge 
to  you  in  so  many  words?'' 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  201 

"Was  it  for  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  "to  feign  that 
other  belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  d^  by 
day?" 

"ij^dam,  it  was,"  he  eagerly  retorted.  "If  I  had 
done  less,  if  I  had  done  anything  but  that,  I  should  not 
be  speaking  to  you  thus;  and  I  foresaw — who  could 
better  foresee,  for  who  has  had  greater  experience  of 
Mr.  Dombey  than  myself? — that  unless  your  character 
should  prove  to  be  as  yielding  and  obedient  as  that  of 
his  first  submissive  lady,  which  I  did  not  believe — " 

A  haughty  smile  gave  him  reason  to  observe  that  he 
might  repeat  this. 

"  I  say,  which  I  did  not  believe, — the  time  was  likely 
to  come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  now 
arrived  at,  would  l>e  serviceable." 

"Serviceable  to  whom,  sir?  "she  demanded  scornfully. 

"  To  you.  I  will  not  add  to  myself,  as  warning  me  to 
refrain  even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  which  I  can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that 
I  may  not  have  the  misfortune  of  saying  anything  dis- 
tasteful to  one  whose  aversion  and  contempt,"  with 
great  expression,  "are  so  keen," 

"It  is  nouest  in  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "to  confess  to 
your  'limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone 
of  disparagement,  even  of  him:  being  his  chief  coun- 
sellor and  flatterer! "' 

"  Counsellor, — ^yes,"  said  Carker.  "  Flatterer, — no. 
A  little  reservation  I  fear  I  must  confess  to.  But  our 
interest  and  convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us 
to  make  professions  that  we  cannot  feel.  We  have 
partnerships  of  interest  and  convenience,  friendships  of 
interest  and  convenience,  dealings  of  interest  and  con- 
venience, marriages  of  interest  and  convenience,  every 
day." 

She  bit  her  blood-red  lip;  but  without  wavering  in  the 
dark,  stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a  chair 
that  was  near  her,  with  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and 
most  considerate  respect,  "why  should  I  hesitate  now, 
being  altogether  devoted  to  your  service,  to  speak 
plainly!  It  was  natural  that  a  lady  endowed  as  you 
are,  snould  think  it  feasible  to  change  her  husband's 
character  in  some  respects,  and  mould  him  to  a.b&^Sfc■^ 
form." 


303  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  It  was  not  natural  to  me,  sir,"  she  rejoined,  "  I  had 
nevei:  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kind." 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  w^as  resolute 
to  wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a  reckless 
disclosure  of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which 
it  might  present  itself  to  such  as  he. 

"At  least  it  was  natural,"  he  resumed,  "that  you 
should  deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  with  Mr.  Domoey 
as  his  wife,  at  once  without  submitting  to  him,  and 
without  coming  into  such  violent  collision  with  him. 
But  madam,  you  did  not  know  Mr.  Dorabey  (as  you  have 
since  ascertained),  when  you  thought  that.  You  did 
not  know  how  exacting  and  how  proud  he  is,  or  how  he 
is,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  slave  of  his  own  greatness,  and  goes 
yoked  to  his  own  triumphal  car  like  a  beast  of  burden, 
with  no  idea  on  earth  but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to 
be  drawn  on,  over  everything  and  through  evervthing." 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relisn  of  this 
conceit,  as  he  went  on  talkmg: 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  con- 
sideration for  you,  madam,  tnan  for  me.  The  compari- 
son is  an  extreme  one;  I  intend  it  to  be  so;  but  quite 
just.  Mr.  Dorabey,  iu  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked 
me — I  had  it  from  his  own  lips  yesterday  morning— to 
be  his  go-between  to  you,  because  he  knows  I  am  not 
agreeable  to  you,  and  because  he  intends  that  I  shall  be 
a  punishment  for  your  contumacy;  and  besides  that, 
because  he  really  does  consider,  that  I,  his  paid  servant, 
am  an  ambassador  whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
— not  of  the  lady  to  whom  I  have  the  happiness  of  speak- 
ing; she  has  no  existence  in  his  mind — ^Dut  of  his  wife, 
a  part  of  himself,  to  receive.  You  may  imagine  how 
regardless  of  me,  how  obtuse  to  the  possibility  of  my 
having  any  individual  sentiment  or  opmion  he  is,  when 
he  tells  me,  openly,  that  I  am  so  employed.  You  know 
how  perfectly  indifferent  to  your  feelings  he  is,  when 
he  threatens  you  with  such  a  messenfi;er.  As  you,  of 
course,  have  not  forgotten  that  he  did. 

Slie  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched 
her  too;  and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a  knowledge 
on  his  part,  of  something  that  had  passed  between  her- 
self and  her  husband,  rankled  and  smarted  in  her 
liaughty  breast  like  a  poisoned  arrow. 

"I  do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  203 

yourself  and  Mr.  Dombey,  madam — Heaven  forbid! 
what  would  it  profit  me — but  as  an  example  of  the  hope- 
lessness of  impressing  Mr,  Dombey  with  a  sense  that 
anybody  is  to  be  considered  when  he  is  in  question.  We 
who  are  about  him,  have,  in  our  various  positions,  done 
our  part,  I  dare  say,  to  confirm  him  in  his  way  of  think- 
ing; but  if  we  had  not  done  so,  others  would — or  they 
would  not  have  been  about  him;  and  it  has  always  been, 
from  the  beginning,  the  very  staple  of  his  life.  Mr. 
Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short,  with  none  but  sub- 
missive and  dependent  persons,  who  have  bowed  the 
knee,  and  bent  the  neck,  before  him.  He  has  never 
known  what  it  is  to  have  angry  pride  and  strong  resent- 
ment opposed  to  him." 

"But  he  will  know  it  now!"  she  seemed  to  say; 
though  her  lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He 
saw  the  soft  down  tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her 
lay  the  plumage  of  the  beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom 
for  a  moment;  and  he  unfolded  one  more  ring  of  the  coil 
into  which  he  had  gathered  himself. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  though  a  most  honorable  gentleman," 
he  said,  "  is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own  view, 
when  he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the  warp 
in  his  mind,  that  he — can  I  give  a  better  instance  than 
this! — he  sincerely  believes  (you  will  excuse  the  folly  of 
what  I  am  about  to  say;  it  not  being  being  mine)  that 
his  severe  expression  of  opinion  to  his  present  wife,  on 
a  certain  special  occasion  she  may  remember,  before 
the  lamented  death  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  produced  a  wither- 
ing effect,  and  for  the  moment  quite  subdued  her!" 

Edith  laughed.  How  harshly  and  unmusically  need 
not  be  described.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear 
her, 

"Madam,"  he  resumed,  "I  have  done  with  this. 
Your  own  opinions  are  so  strong,  and,  I  am  persuaded, 
so  unalterable,"  he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and 
with  great  emphasis,  "  that  I  am  almost  afraid  to  incur 
your  displeasure  anew,  when  I  say  that  in  spite  of  these 
defects  and  my  full  knowledge  of  them,  I  have  become 
habituated  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  esteem  him.  But,  when 
I  say  so,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
vaunting  a  feeling  that  is  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
your  own,  and  for  which  you  can  have  no  syro.'MiXVi.'j'"  — 
oh  how  distinct  and  plain,  and  empVi.aftVBetli  XJsiw.  '^»s>"'-. 


204  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"but  to  give  you  an  assurance  of  the  zeal  with  which. 
in  this  unhappy  matter,  I  am  voure,  and  the  indication 
with  which  I  regard  the  part  I  am  required  to  fill!" 

She  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from  His 
face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil! 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Carter,  after  a  pause,  "  and 
you  are,  as  you  said,  fatigued.  But  the  second  objectof 
this  interview,  I  must  not  forget.  I  must  recommend 
you,  I  must  entreat  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  for 
sufficient  reasons  that  I  have,  to  be  cautious  in  your 
demonstrations  of  regard  for  Miss  Dombey." 

"Cautious!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection 
for  that  young  lady," 

"Too  much  affection,  sir!"  said  Edith,  knitting  her 
broad  brow  and  rising.  "  Who  judges  my  affection,  or 
measures  it  out.     You?" 

"  It  is  not  I  who  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned  to  be, 
perplexed. 

"Who  then?" 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  then?  " 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

"Madam,"  he  said  after  a  little  hesitation;  meantime 
they  had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as 
before;  "  I  am  in  a  difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me 
you  will  receive  no  message,  and  you  have  forbidden 
me  to  return  to  that  subject;  but  the  two  subjects  are  so 
closely  entwined,  I  find,  that  unless  you  will  accept  this 
vague  caution  from  one  who  has  now  the  honor  to  pos- 
sess your  confidence,  though  the  way  to  it  has  been 
through  your  displeasure,  I  must  violate  the  injunction 
you  have  laid  upon  me." 

"You  know  that  you  are  free  to  do  so,  sir,"  said 
Edith.     "Doit." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned!  He  had  not 
miscalculated  the  effect,  then! 

"His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"that  I  should  inform  you  that  your  demeanor  towards 
Miss  Dombey  is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests 
comparisons  to  him  which  are  not  favorable  to  himself. 
That  he  desires  it  may  be  wholly  changed:  and  that  if 
you  are  in  earnest,  he  is  confident  it  will  be;  for  your 
continued  show  of  affection  will  not  benefit  its  object." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  205 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  she  said, 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  he  answered  in  his  voiceless  man- 
ner of  assent:  adding  aloud,  "but^ot  directed  against 
you." 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting 
him;  and  looking  through  him  as  she  did,  with  her  fufl 
bright  flashing  eye;  and  smiling,  as  she  was,  with  scorn 
and  bitterness;  she  sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped 
beneath  her,  and  in  an  instant  would  have  fallen  ou  the 
floor,  but  that  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  As  instan- 
taneously she  threw  him  off,  the  moment  that  he 
touched  her,  and,  drawing  hack,  confronted  him  again, 
immovable,  with  her  hand  stretched  out, 

"  Please  to  leave  me.    Say  no  more  to-night." 

"I  feel  the  urgency  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "be- 
cause it  is  impossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  conse- 
quences might  arise,  or  how  soon,  from  your  being 
unacquainted  with  his  state  of  mind.  I  understand 
Miss  Dombey  is  concerned,  now,  at  the  dismissal  of  her 
old  servant,  which  is  likely  to  have  been  a  minor  con- 
sequence in  itself.  You  don't  blame  me  for  requesting 
that  Miss  Dombey  might  not  he  present.  May  I  hope 
so?" 

"I  do  not.    Please  to  leave  me,  sir." 

"I  knew  that  your  regard  for  the  young  lady,  which 
is  very  sincere  and  strong,  I  am  well  persuaded,  would 
render  it  a  great  unhappmess  to  you,  ever  to  be  a  prey 
to  the  reflection  that  you  had  injured  her  position  and 
ruined  her  future  hopes,"  said  Carker,  hurriedly,  hut 
eagerly. 

"  No  more  to-night.    Leave  me,  if  you  please." 

"I  shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon 
him,  and  in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.  You 
will  allow  me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what 
should  be  done,  and  learn  your  wishes?" 

She  motioned  him  towards  the  door. 

"I  cannot  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I  have 
spoken  to  you  yet;  or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I  have 
deferred  doing  so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  for  any 
other  reason.  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  shoiald 
enable  me  to  consult  with  you  very  soon." 

"  At  any  time  but  now,"  she  answered. 

"You  will  understand  when  I  wiahto  aee  "3^m.,'Cvv?*. 
Miss  Dombey  is  not  to  be  present;  anA  WtAv^^^  «^ 


206  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

interview  as  one  who  has  the  happiness  to  possess  yonr 
confidence,  and  who  comes  to  render  you  every  assist- 
ance in  his  power,  ^nd  perhapsj  on  many  occasions  to 
ward  off  evil  from  her? " 

Looking  at  him  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of 
releasing  him  for  a  moment  from  the  influence  of  her 
steady  gaze,  whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered, 
•'Yes! "  and  once  more  bade  him  go. 

He  bowed  as  if  in  compliance;  but  turning  back  when 
be  bad  nearly  reached  the  door,  said: 

"  I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May 
I — for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own — take  your 
hand  before  I  go? 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last 
night.  He  took  it  in  one  of  his  and  kissed  it,  and  with- 
drew. And  when  he  had  closed  the  door  he  waved  the 
hand  with  which  he  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BECOONIZANT  AND  REFLECTIVE. 

Ahono  sundry  minor  alterations  in  Mr.  Carker's  life 
and  habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none 
was  more  remarkable  than  the  extraordinary  diligence 
with  which  he  applied  himself  to  business,  andtheclose- 
hess  with  which  ne  investigated  every  detail  that  the 
affairs  of  the  House  laid  open  to  him.  Always  active 
and  penetrating  in  such  matters,  his  lynx-eyed  vigilance 
now  increased  twentv-fold.  Not  only  did  his  weary 
watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point  that  every 
day  presented  to  him  in  some  new  lorm,  but  in  the 
midst  of  these  engrossing  occupations  he  found  leisure 
— that  is,,  he  made  it — to  review  the  past  transactions  of 
the  Firm,  and  his  share  in  them,  during  along  series  of 
years.  Frequently  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone,  the 
offices  dark  and  empty,  and  all  similar  places  of  busi- 
ness shut  up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the  whole  anatomy  of 
the  iron  room  laid  bare  before  him,  would  explore  the 
mysteries  of  books  and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  207 

of  a  man  who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and 
fibres  of  his  subject.  Perch,  the  messenger,  who  usually 
remained  on  these  occasionB,  to  entertain  himself  with 
the  perusal  of  the  Price  Current  by  the  light  of  one  candle, 
or  to  doze  over  the  fire  in  the  outer  office,  at  the  immi- 
nent risk  every  moment  of  diving  head  foremost  into  the 
coal  box,  could  not  withhold  the  tribute  of  his  admiration 
from  this  zealous  conduct,  although  it  much  contracted 
his  domestic  enjovments;  and  again,  and  again,  expati- 
ated to  Mrs,  Percn  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  industry 
and  acuteness  of  theirmanaging  gentleman  in  the  City. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr, 
Carker  bestowed  on  the  business  of  the  House,  he  ap- 
plied to  his  own  personal  affairs.  Though  not  a  partner 
in  the  concern — a  distinction  hitherto  reserved  solely  to 
inheritors  of  the  great  name  of  Dombey — he  was  in  the 
receipt  of  some  percentage  on  its  dealings;  and  partici- 
pating in  all  its  facilities  for  the  employment  of  money 
to  advantage,  was  considered,  by  tlie  minnows  among 
the  tritons  of  the  East,  a  rich  man.  It  began  to  be  said, 
among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem  Carker,  of 
Dombey's,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he  was 
worth;  and  that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a  good 
time,  like  the  long-headed  fellow  he  was;  and  bets  were 
even  offered  on  the  Stock  Exchange  that  Jem  was  going 
to  marry  a  rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  Mr. 
Carker's  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness, 
neatness,  sleekness,  or  any  cat-like  quality  he  possessed. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  there  was  a  change  in  him,  in 
reference  to  any  of  his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man 
was  intensified.  Everything  that  had  been  observable 
in  him  before,  was  observable  now,  but  with  a  greater 
amount  of  concentration.  He  did  each  single  thing  as 
if  he  did  nothing  else — a  pretty  certain  indication  m  a 
man  of  tliat  range  of  ability  and  purpose  that  he  is 
doing  something  which  sharpens  and  Keeps  alive  his 
keenest  powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him,  was,  that  as  he 
rode  to  and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into 
deep  fits  of  musing,  like  that  in  which  he  had  come 
away  from  Mr.  Dombey's  house  on  the  morning  of  that 
gentleman's  disaster.  At  such  times  he  would  kfew* 
clear  of  the  obstacles  in  his  way,  mecYiti.mtal^'^ ■,  w:^ 


208  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

would  appear  to  see  and  hear  nothiog  until  arrival  at 
his  destinatioD,  or  some  sudden  chance  or  effort  roused 
him. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse  thus,  to  the  counting- 
house  of  Domhey  and  Son  one  day,  he  was  as  uncon- 
scious of  the  observation  of  two  pairs  of  women's  eyes, 
as  of  the  fascinated  orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in 
waiting  a  street's  length  from  the  appointed  place,  as  a 
demonstration  of  punctuality,  vainly  touched  and  re- 
touched his  hat  to  attract  attention,  and  trotted  along 
on  foot,  by  his  master's  side,  prepared  to  hold  his  stir- 
rup when  he  should  alight. 

"  See  where  he  goes!  cried  one  of  these  two  women, 
an  old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shrivelled  arm 
to  point  him  out  to  her  companion,  a  young  woman, 
who  stood  close  beside  her,  withdrawn  hke  herself  into 
a  gateway. 

Mrs.  Brown's  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown;  and  there  were  wrath  and  ven- 
geance in  her  face. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice;  "but  it's  well  I  should,  perhaps.   I  see.    I  see!" 

"Not  changed!"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of 
eager  malice. 

"He  changed!"  returned  the  other.  "What  for? 
What  has  he  suffered?  There  is  change  enough  for 
twenty  in  me.     "  Isn't  that  enough?  " 

"See  where  he  goes!"  muttered  the  old  woman, 
watching  her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes;  "so  easy 
and  so  trim,  a'horseback,  while  we  are  in  the  mud — " 

"And  of  it,"  said  her  daughter  impatiently.  "  We  are 
mud,  underneath  his  horse's  feet.    What  should  we  be?" 

In  the  intentness  with  which  she  looked  after  him 
again,  she  made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when 
the  old  woman  began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be 
obstructed  by  mere  sound.  Her  mother  watching  her, 
and  not  him,  remained  silent;  until  her  kindling  glance 
subsided,  and  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  in  the  relief 
of  his  being  gone. 

"  Deary!  said  the  old  woman  then.  "  Alice!  Hand- 
some gall  Ally!"  She  gently  shook  her  sleeve  to 
arouse  uer  attention.  "V?ill  you  let  him  go  like  that, 
when  you  can  wring  money  from  him.  Why,  it's  a 
wickedness,  my  daughter." 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  209 

"  Haven't  I  told  you,  that  I  will  not  have  money  from 
him?"  she  returned.  "And  don't  you  yet  believe  me? 
Did  I  take  his  sister's  money?  Would  I  touch  a  penny, 
if  I  knew  it,  that  had  gone  through  his  white  hauds — 
unless,  it  was,  indeed,  that  I  could  poison  it,  and  send 
it  back  to  him?    Peace,  mother,  and  come  away." 

"And  him  so  rich?"  murmured  the  old  woman. 
"And  us  so  poor!" 

"  Poor  in  not  being  able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm 
we  owe  him,"  returned  her  (laughter.  "  Let  him  give 
me  that  sort  of  riches,  and  I'll  take  them  from  him  and 
use  them.  Come  away.  It's  no  good  looking  at  his 
horse.    Come  away,  mother!" 

"  But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob 
the  Grinder  returning  down  the  street,  leading  the 
riderless  horse,  appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  in- 
terest that  it  did  not  possess  in  itself,  surveyed  that 
young  man  with  the  utmost  earnestness;  and  seeming 
to  have  whatever  doubts  slie  entertained,  resolved  as 
he  drew  nearer,  glanced  at  her  daughter  with  bright- 
ened eves  and  with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  emer^ng 
from  the  gateway  at  the  moment  of  his  passing,  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Why,  Where's  my  sprightly  Bob  been,  all  this  time! " 
she  said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very 
much  diminished  by  the  salutation,  looked  exceedingly 
dismayed,  and  said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes: 

"Ob!  why  can't  you  leave  a  poor  cove  alone.  Misses 
Brown,  when  he's  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  con- 
ducting himself  respectable?  What  do  you  come  and 
deprive  a  cove  of  his  character  for,  by  talKing  to  him  in 
the  streets,  when  he's  taking  his  master's  horse  to  a 
honest  stable — a  horse  you'd  go  and  sell  for  cats'  and 
dogs'  meat  if  you  had  j/our  way!  Why,  I  thought," 
said  the  Grinder,  producmg  his  concludmg  remark  as 
if  it  were  the  climax  of  all  his  injuries,  "that  you  was 
dead  loD^  ago!'' 

"This  IS  the  wav,"  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing  to 
her  daughter,  "that  he  talks  to  me,  who  knew  him 
weeks  and  months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood 
his  friend  many  and  many  a  time  among  the  pigeon- 
fancying  tramps  and  bird-catchers," 

"  Let  the  birds  be,  will  you,  Misses  Bto^u^"  ■x^ioVw,^ 


210  DOMBEY  AND  SOJf. 

Rob,  in  a  tone  of  the  aeutest  anguish.  "  I  think  a  cove 
had  better  have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  creet- 
urs,  for  they're  alvrays  flying  back  in  your  face  when 
you  least  expect  it.  Well,  how  d'ye  do  and  what  do 
you  want?"  These  polite  inquiries  the  Grinder  uttered, 
as  it  were,  under  protest,  and  with  great  exasperation 
and  vindictiveness. 

"Hark  how  he  speaks  to  an  old  friend,  my  deary!" 
said  Mrs,  Brown,  again  appealing  to  her  daughter.  "  But 
there's  some  of  his  old  friends  not  so  patient  as  me.  If 
I  was  to  tell  some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported  and 
cheated  with,  where  to  find  him — " 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Misses  Brown?"  inter- 
rupted the  miserable  Grinder,  glancing  quickly  round, 
as  though  he  expected  to  see  his  master's  teeth  shining 
at  his  elbow.  '■  What  do  you  take  a  pleasure  in  ruining 
a  cove  for?  At  your  time  of  life  too!  when  you  ought 
to  be  thinking  of  a  variety  of  things!" 

"What  a  gallant  horse! "said  the  old  woman,  patting 
the  animal's  neck. 

"Let  him  alone,  will  you.  Misses  Brown?"  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  "You're  enough  to  drive  a 
penitent  cove  mad!" 

"  Why,  what  hurt  do  I  do  him,  child?  "  returned  the 
old  woman. 

"Hurt?"  said  Rob.  "He's  got  a  master  that  would 
find  it  out  if  he  was  touched  with  a  straw."  And  ho 
blew  upon  the  place  where  the  old  woman's  hand  had 
rested  for  a  moment,  and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his 
fiiiger,  as  if  he  seriously  believed  what  he  sai9, 

Tlie  old  woman  lookmg  back  to  mumble  and  mouth 
at  her  daughter,  wlio  followed,  kept  close  to  Rob's  heels 
as  he  walked  on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand;  and  pur- 
sued the  conversation. 

"A  good  place,  Rob,  eh?"  said  she,  "You're  in  luck, 
my  child." 

"Oh  don't  talk  about  luck.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
the  wretched  Grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  "  If 
you'd  never  come,  or  if  you'd  go  away,  then  indeed  a 
cove  might  be  considered  tolerable  lucky.  Can't  you 
go  along.  Misses  Brown,  and  not  foller  me!"  blubbered 
Rob,  with  sudden  defiance.  "  If  the  young  woman  "s  a 
friend  of  yours,  why  don't  she  take  you  away,  instead 
of  letting  you  make  yourself  so  disgraceful!" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  311 

"What!"  croaked  the  old  woman,  putting  her  face 
close  to  his,  with  a  malevolent  g:rin  upon  it  that  puck- 
ered up  the  loose  skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  "  Do 
you  deny  your  old  chum  I  Have  you  lurked  to  my  house 
fifty  times,  and  slept  sound  in  a  corner  when  you  had 
no  other  bed  but  the  paving-stones,  and  do  you  talk  to 
me  like  thi$!  Have  I  bought  and  sold  with  you,  and 
helped  you  in  my  way  of  business,  school-boy,  sneak, 
and  what  not,  and  do  you  tell  me  to  go  along?  Could  I 
raise  a  crowd  of  old  company  about  you  to-morrow 
morning,  that  would  follow  you  to  ruin  like  copies  of 
your  own  shadow,  and  do  you  turn  on  me  with  your 
bold  looks!    I'll  go,.   Come,  Alice." 

"Stop,  Misses  Brown ! "  cried  the  dJBtracted  Grinder. 
"What  are  you  doing  of?  Don't  put  yourself  in  a  pas- 
sion! Don't  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I  haven't  meant 
any  offence.  I  said  '  how  d'ye  do.'  at  first,  didn't  I?  But 
you  wouldn't  answer.  How  do  you  do?  Besides,"  said 
Bob  piteously,  "look  here!  How  can  a  cove  stand  talk- 
ing in  the  street  with  his  master's  prad  a  wanting  to  be 
took  to  be  rubbed  down,  and  his  master  up  to  every  in- 
dividgle  thing  that  happens?" 

The  old  woman  made  a  show  of  being  partially  ap- 
peased, hut  shook  her  head,  and  mouthea  and  muttered 
still. 

"Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a  glass  of 
something  that's  good  for  you,  Misses  Brown,  can't 
you?"  said  Rob,  '"  mstead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which 
IS  no  good  to  you,  nor  anybody  else?  Come  along  with 
her,  will  you  be  so  kind?"  said  Rob.  "I'm  sure  I'm 
delighted  to  see  her,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  horse!  " 

With  this  apology,  Rob  turned  away,  a  rueful  picture 
of  despair,  and  walked  his  charge  down  a  by  street. 
The  old  woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed 
close  upon  him.     The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a  silent  little  square  or  court  yard  that 
had  a  great  church  tower  rising  above  it,  and  a  packer's 
warehouse,  and    a  bottle-maker's  warehouse,  for    its 

E laces  of  business.  Kob  the  Grinder  delivered  the  white- 
;gged  horse  to  the  hostler  of  a  quaint  stable  at  the 
coiTier;  and  inviting  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  to 
seat  themselves  upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  gate  of  that 
establishment,  soon  reappeared  from^  a  ■n&V^cfeovvTvj, 
public-house  with  a  pewter  measure  and  a  ^asi. 


212  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Here's  master — Mr.  Carker,  child!"  said  the  old 
woman,  slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking. 
"  Lord  bless  him! " 

"Why,  I  didn't  tell  you  who  he  was,"  observed  Rob, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"We  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose 
working  mouth  and  nodaing  head,  stopped  for  the  mo- 
ment, in  the  fixedness  of  her  attention.  "  We  saw  him 
pass  this  morning,  afore  he  got  off  his-horse;  when  you 
were  ready  to  take  it," 

"  Ay,  ay?  "  returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his 
readiness  had  carried  him  to  any  other  place.  *'  What's 
the  matter  with  her?    Won't  she  drink?" 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,  who  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a  little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his 
oflfer  of  the  replenished  class. 

The  old  woman  shook  ner  head.  "Don't  mind  her," 
she  said;  "she's  a  strange  creetur,  it  you  know'd  her, 
Rob.     But  Mr.  Carker—'*^ 

"Hush!"  said  Rob,  glancing  cautiously  up  at  the 
packer's,  and  at  the  bottle-maker's,  as  if,  from  any  one 
of  the  tiers  of  warehouses,  Mr.  Carker  might  be  look- 
ing down.     "Softly." 

"  Why,  he  ain't  here!  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown. 

'■I  don't  know  that,"  muttered  Rob,  whose  glanc« 
even  wandered  to  the  church  tower,  as  if  he  might  be 
there,  with  a  supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

"Good  master?"  inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded;  and  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "precious 
sharp. " 

"Lives  out  of  town,  don't  he,  lovey?"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"When  he's  at  home,"  returned  Rob;  "but  we  don't 
live  at  home  just  now." 

"Where  then?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Lodgings;  up  near  Mr.  Dombey's,"  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly 
upon  him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Biob  was  quite  con- 
founded, and  offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  mon,' 
effect  upon  her  than  before, 

"Mr.  Dombey — you  and  I  used  to  talk  about  him, 
sometimes,  you  "know,"  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown,  "  You 
used  to  get  me  to  talk  about  him." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21:) 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he's  had  a  fall  from  his  horse," 
said  Rob,  unwillingly;  "  and  my  master  has  to  be  up 
there,  more  than  usual,  either  with  him,  or  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, or  some  of  'em;  and  bo  we've  come  to  town." 
""Are  they  good  friends,  lovey?"  asked  the  old 
woman. 

"Who?"  retorted  Rob. 

"He  and  she?" 

"What.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey?"  said  Bob.  "How 
should  /know!" 

"Not  them— Master  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,"  re- 
plied the  old  woman,  coaxingly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  him  again. 
"I  suppose  so.  How  curious  you  are.  Misses  Brown! 
Least  said  soonest  mended," 

"  Why  there's  no  harm  in  it! "  exclaimed  the  old 
woman,  with  a  laugh  and  a  clap  of  her  hands. 
"  Sprightly  Rob  has  grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well 
off!    'Hiere's  no  harm  in  it." 

"No,  there's  no  harm  in  it,  I  know,"  returned  Rob, 
with  the  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer's  and  the 
bottle-maker's,  and  the  church;  "but  blabbling,  if  it's 
only  about  the  number  of  buttons  on  my  master's  coat, 
won't  do.  I  tell  you  it  won't  do  with  him.  A  cove  had 
better  drown  himself.  He  says  so.  I  shouldn't  have  so 
much  as  told  you  what  his  name  was,  if  you  hadn't 
known  it.     Talk  about  somebody  else." 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the 
old  woman  made  a  secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It 
was  momentary,  but  the  daughter,  with  a  slight  look  of 
intelligence,  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  boy's  face, 
and  sat  folded  in  her  cloak  as  before. 

"  Rob,  lovey!"  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  him  to 
the  other  end  of  the  bench,  "You  were  always  a  pet 
and  a  favorite  of  mine.  Now,  weren't  you?  Don't  you 
know  you  were?" 

"  Yes,  Misses  Brown,"  replied  the  Grinder,  with  a 
very  bad  grace. 

"And  you  could  leave  me!"  said  the  old  woman, 
flinging  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  You  could  go 
away,  and  grow  almost  out  of  knowledge,  and  never 
come  to  teU  your  poor  old  friend  how  fortunate  you 
were,  proud  lad!    Ono,  Oho!" 

"Oh  here's  a  dreadful  go  for  a  co^e  ^aXSa  %o\.  %. 


214  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

master  wide  awake  in  the  neighborhood! "  exclaimed  the 
wretched  Grinder.     "  To  be  howled  over  like  this  herel" 

"Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby?"  cried  Mrs. 
Brown.     "  Oho,  won't  you  ever  come  and  see  me?" 

"Yee,  I  tell  youl    Yes,  I  willl"  returned  the  Grinder. 

"That's  my  own  Robl  That's  my  lovelv.'"  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shrivelled  face,  and 
giving  him  a  tender  squeeze.    "At  the  old  place,  Rob?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Grinder. 

"  Soon,  Robby  dear?  *'  cried  Mrs.  Brown;  "  and 
often?" 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Yes,"  replied  Rob.  "  I  will  indeed,  upon 
ray  soul  and  body." 

"  And  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted 
towards  the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  ana  shak- 
ing, "  if  he's  true  to  his  word,  I'll  never  come  a-near 
him,  though  I  know  where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a 
syllable  about  him!    Never!" 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a  drop  of  comfort  to  the  mis- 
erable Grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brown  by  the  hand 
upon  it,  and  implored  her  with  tears  in  bis  eyes,  to 
leave  a  cove,  and  not  destroy  his  prospects.  Mrs, 
Brown,  with  another  fond  embrace,  assented;  but  id 
the  act  of  following  her  daughter,  turned  back,  with 
her  finger  stealthily  raised,  and  asked  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  for  some  money. 

"A  shilling,  dear!"  she  said,  with  her  eager,  avari- 
cious face,  "  or  sixpencel"  For  old  acquaintance  sake. 
I'm  so  poor.  And  my  handsome  gal  ' — looking  over 
her  shoulder — "she's  my  gal.  Rob — naif  starves  me." 

But  as  the  reluctant  Grinder  put  it  in  her  hand,  her 
daughter,  coming  quietly  back,  caught  the  band  in 
hers,  and  twisted  out  the  coin. 

"What."'  she  said,  "motherl  always  monevl  money 
from  the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little 
what  I  said  but  now?    Here.    Take  it!" 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  moan  as  the  money  was  re- 
stored, but  without  in  any  other  wav  opposing  its  resto- 
ration, hobbled  at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the  yard, 
and  along  the  bv  street  upon  which  it  opened.  The 
astonished  and  dismayed  Rob  staring  after  them,  saw 
that  they  stopped,  and  fell  to  earnest  conversation  very 
soon;  and  more  than  once  observed  a  darkly  threaten- 
ing action  of  the  younger  woman's  hand  (obviously 


DOMBEY  AND  SOU.  S15 

having  reference  to  some  one  of  whom  they  Bpoke), 
and  a  crooning  feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Brown,  that  made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might  not  be 
the  subject  of  their  discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone, 
and  with  the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown 
could  not  live  for  ever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long 
to  trouble  him,  the  Grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting 
his  misdeeds  than  as  they  were  attended  with  such  dis- 
agreeable incidental  consequences,  composed  his  ruffled 
features  to  a  more  serene  expre^ion  by  thinking  of  the 
admirable  manner  in  which  he  had  disposed  of  Captain 
Cuttle  (a  reflection  that  seldom  faitea  to  put  him  in  a 
flow  of  spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dombey  counting-house 
to  receive  his  master's  orders. 

There  his  master,  so  subtle  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that 
Rob  quaked  before  him,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be 
taxea  with  Mrs.  Brown,  gave  bim  the  usual  morning's 
box  of  papers  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  a  note  for  Mrs. 
Dombey:  mereiy  nodding  his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to 
be  careful,  and  to  use  despatch — a  mysterious  admoni- 
tion, fraught  in  the  Grinder's  imaginatioD  with  dismal 
warnings  and  threats;  and  more  powerful  with  him 
than  any  words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Carker  applied 
himself  to  work,  and  worked  all  day.  He  saw  many 
visitors;  overlooked  a  number  of  documents:  went  in 
and  out,  to  and  from,  sundry  places  of  mercantile  re- 
sort; and  indulged  in  no  more  abstraction  until  the 
day's  business  was  done.  But,  when  the  usual  clearance 
of  papers  from  his  table  was  made  at  last,  he  fell  into 
his  thoughtful  mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  atti- 
tude, with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  ground,  when 
his  brother  entered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had 
been  taken  out  in  the  course  of  the  day.  He  put  them 
quietly  on  the  table  and  was  going  immediately,  when 
Mr,  Carker  the  manager,  whose  eyes  had  rested  on  him 
on  his  entrance,  as  if  they  had  all  this  time  had  him  for 
the  subject  of  their  contemplation,  instead  of  the  office- 
floor,  said: 

"Well,  John  Carker,  and  what  brings  you  here?" 

His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  andwas  a.%wn'«'\'C^- 
drawing. 


na  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  manager, "  that  you  can  come 
and  ffo  without  inquiring  how  our  master  is." 

■'We  had  word  this  morning,  in  the  countine-house, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  doing  well,"  replied  his  nrother. 

"You  are  such  a  meek  fellow,"  said  the  manager  with 
a  smile,  " — but  you  have  grown  so,  in  the  course  of 
years— that  if  any  harm  came  to  him  you'd  be  miserable, 
I  dare  swear  now." 

"I  should  be  truly  sorry,  James,"  returned  the  other. 

"  He  would  be  sorry,"  said  the  manager,  pointing  at 
him,  as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom 
he  was  appealing.  "He  woula  be  truly  sorry!  This 
brother  or  minel    This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted 

fiiece  of  lumber,  pushed  aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
ike  a  rotten  picture,  and  left  so,  for  Heaven  knows  how 
raanv  years;  Ac's  all  gratitude  and  respect  and  devotion 
too,  ne  would  have  me  believe!" 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,"  returned 
the  other.  "Be  as  jusf  to  me  as  you  would  to  any 
other  man  below  you.  You  ask  a  question  and  I  an- 
swer it," 

"  And  have  you  nothing,  spaniel,"  said  the  manager, 
with  unusual  irascibility, ''to  complain  of  in  him?  No 
proud  treatment  to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of 
state,  no  exaction  of  any  sort!  What  the  devil  are  you! 
man  or  mouse?" 

"It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persous  could  be 
together  for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and 
interior,  without  each  "having  somethmg  to  complain  of 
in  the  other—as  he  thought,  at  all  events,"  replied  John 
Carker.     "  But  apart  from  my  history  here — 

"  His  history  here!  "  exclaimed  the  manager.  "  Why, 
there  it  is.  Tne  very  fact  that  makes  him  an  extreme 
case,  puts  him  out  of  the  whole  chapter!    Well?" 

"Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  I  alone  (happily  for  all  the 
rest)  possess,  surely  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who 
wouldT  not  say  and  feel  at  least  as  much.  You  do  not 
think  that  anj-body  here  would  be  indifferent  to  a  mis- 
chance or  misfortune  happening  to  the  head  of  the 
House,  or  anything  than  truly  sorry  for  it?" 

"You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too!"  said 
the  manager,  contemptuously.  "  Why,  don't  you  be- 
lieve that  you  are  kept  here  as  a  cheap  example  and  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  317 

famous  instance  of   the  clemencv  of  Dombey  and  Son, 
redounding  to  the  credit  of  the  illustrious  House?  " 

"  No,"  replied  his  brother,  mildly/' I  have  long^  believed 
that  I  am  kept  here  for  more  kmd  and  disinterested 
reasons." 

"But  you  were  going,"  said  the  manager,  with  the 
snarl  of  a  tiger-cat,  "  to  recite  some  Christian  I)recept,  I 
observed. " 

."  Nay,  James,"  returned  the  other,"  though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us  has  long  been  oroken  and 
thrown  away — " 

"Who  broKe  it,  good  sir?"  said  the  manager. 

"I,  by  my  misconduct.  I  do  not  charge  it  upon 
you." 

The  manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his 
bristling  mouth,  "Oh,  you  don't  charge  it  upon  me!" 
and  bade  him  go  on. 

"  I  say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do  not,  ' 
I  entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  misin- 
terpret what  I  say,  or  would  sav.  I  was  only  going  to 
suggest  to  you  that  it  would  Be  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  it  is  only  you  who  have  been  selected,  above  all 
others,  for  advancement,  confidence  and  distinction 
(selected,  in  the  beginning,  I  know,  for  your  great  ability 
and  trustfulness),  and  who  communicate  more  freely 
with  Mr.  Dombey  than  anyone,  and  stand,  it  may  be 
said,  on  equal  terms  with  him,  and  have  been  favored 
and  enriched  by  him— that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  it  is  only  you  who  are  tender  of  his  welfare 
ana  reputation.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house,  from 
yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I  sincerely  believe,  who 
does  not  participate  in  that  feeling." 

"  You  lie,"  said  the  Manager,  red  with  sudden  anger. 
"You're  a  hypocrite,  John  Carker,  and  you  liel " 

"James!  "  cried  the  other,  flushing  in  his  turn.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  these  insulting  words?  Why  do  you 
BO  basely  use  them  to  me,  unprovoked?" 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  your  hypocrisy 
and  meekness — that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meefeness  of 
this  place — is  not  worth  that  to  me,"  snapping  his  thumb 
and  finger,  "and  that  I  see  through  it  as  if  it  were  airl 
There  is  not  a  man  employed  here,  standing  between 
myself  and  the  lowest  in  place  (of  whom  you  are  ver^ 
considerate,  and  with  reason,  for  he  V6  no\.  xax  oSS.^ ,  "^^^^ 


218  _  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wouldn't  be  glad  at  heart  to  see  his  master  humbled: 
who  does  not  hate  him,  secretly:  who  does  not  wish  him 
evil  rather  than  good;  and  wno  would  not  turn  upon 
him  if  he  had  the  power  and  boldness.  The  nearer  to 
his  favor,  the  nearer  to  his  insolence;  the  closer  to  him, 
the  farther  from  him.     That's  the  creed  here!  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  brother,  whose  roused  feel- 
ings had  soon  yielded  to  suriirise,  "who  mav  have 
abused  your  ear  with  such  representations;  or  wliy  vou 
have  chosen  to  try  me,  rather  than  another,  _3ut  t^t 
you  have  been  trying  me,  and  tampering  with  me,  lam 
now  sure.  You  have  a  different  manner  and  a  different 
aspect  from  any  that  I  c^vcr  saw  in  you,  I  will  only  say 
to  you  once  more,  you  are  deceived," 

"  I  know  I  am,"  said  the  manager.     "  i  have  told  you 

BO." 

"Not  by  me,"  returned  his  brother,  "By  your  in- 
formant, if  you  have  one.  If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts 
and  suspicions." 

"I  have  no  suspicions,"  said  the  manager.  "Mine 
are  certainties.  Vou  pusiltanimous,  abject,  cringing 
ilo'gs!  All  making  the  same  show,  all  canting  the  saine 
story,  all  whining  the  same  professions,  all  narboring 
the  same  transparent  secret," 

His  brother  withdrew  without  saying  more,  and  shut 
the  door  as  he  concluded,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
drew  a  chair  close  before  the  fire  and  fell  to  beating  the 
coals  softly  with  the  poker. 

"The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves,"  he  muttered 
with  his  two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  "  Theres 
not  one  among  them  who  wouldn't  feign  to  be  so  shocked 
and  outraged — !  Bah  I  There's  not  one  among  them 
but  if  he  had  at  once  the  power  and  the  wit  and  daring 
to  use  it,  would  scatter  Dombey's  pride  and  lay  it  low. 
as  ruthlessly  as  I  rake  out  these  ashes." 

As  he  broke  them  up  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate, 
he  looked  on  with  a  thouglitful  smile  at  what  he  was 
doing.  "Without  the  same  queen  beckoner  tool"  he 
added  presently;  "  and  there  is  a  pride  there  not  to  be 
forgotten — witness  our  acquaintance!  "  With  that  be 
fellinto  a  deeper  reverie,  and  sat  pondering  over  the 
blackening  grate,  until  he  rose  up  like  a  man  who  had 
been  absorbed  in  a  book,  and  looking  round  him  took 
his  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his  norse  was  waiting, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  219 

mounted  and  rode  away  through  the  lighted  streets;  for 
it  was  evening. 

He  rode  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house;  and  falling  into  a 
walk  as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  windows. 
The  window  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence  sitting 
with  her  dog  attracted  his  attention  first,  though  there 
was  no  light  in  it;  but  he  smiled  as  he  carried  his  eyes 
up  the  tail  front  of  the  house,  and  seemed  to  leave  that 
object  superciliously  behind. 

"Time  was^"  he  said,  "when  it  was  well  to  watch 
even  your  rising  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quarter 
there  were  clouds,  to  shadow  you  if  needful.  But  a 
planet  has  arisen,  and  you  are.lost  in  its  light." 

He  turned  hie  white-legged  horse  round  the  street  cor- 
ner, and  sought  one  shinmg  window  from  among  those 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was  a 
stately  presence,  a  gloved  hand,  the  remembrance  how 
the  featliers  of  a  beautiful  bird's  wing  had  been  show- 
ered down  upon  the  floor,  and  how  the  light  white  down 
upon  a  robe  had  stirred  and  rustled,  as  m  the  rising  of 
a  distant  storm.  These  were  the  things  he  carried  with 
him  as  he  turned  away  again  and  rode  through  the 
darkening  and  deserted  parks  at  a  quick  rate. 

In  fatal  truth  these  were  associated  with  a  woman,  a 

Sroud  woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who  by  slow  and  sure 
egrees  had  been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and 
resentment,  to  endure  his  company,  and  little  hy  little 
to  receive  him  as  one  who  had  the  privilege  to  talk  to 
her  of  her  own  defiant  disregard  of  her  own  husband, 
and  her  abandonment  of  high  consideration  for  herself. 
They  were  associated  with  a  woman  who  bated  him 
deeply,  and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him 
because  she  knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her;  but 
who  fed  her  fierce  resentment  hy  suffering  him  to  draw 
nearer  and  yet  nearer  to  her  every  day,  in  ~spite  of  the 
hate  she  cherished  for  him.  In  spite  of  it!  For  that  very 
reason;  since  its  depths,  too  far  down  for  her  threaten- 
ing eye  to  pierce,  though  she  could  see  into  them  dimly, 
lay  tne  dark  retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow  seen 
once  and  shuddered  at,  and  never  seen  again,  would 
have  been  sufficient  stain  upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a  woman  flit  about  him  on 
his  ride;  true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him? 
Yes.    He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  exactly  as  she  viaa. 


220  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  reaentment, 
hatred,  all  as  plain  to  liim  as  her  beauty;  with  nothing 
plaiiier  to  him  than  her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  her 
sometimes  haughty  and  repellent  at  his  side,  and  some- 
timeB  down  among  his  horse's  feet,  fallen  and  in  the 
dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  she  was,  without  dis- 
guise, and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous  way  that  she 
was  going. 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  was  newly 
dressed,  and  came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room 
with  his  bent  head,  soft  voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he 
saw  her  yet  as  plainly.  He  even  suspected  the  mystery 
of  the  gloved  hand,  and  held  it  all  the  longer  in  his  own 
for  that  suspicion.  Upon  the  dangerous  way  that  she 
was  going,  he  was  still;  and  not  a  footprint  did  she 
mark  upon  it,  but  be  set  bis  own  there,  straight. 


CHAPTER  rVII. 

THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife  was 
not  weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in 
themselves  and  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie 
but  the  manacle  that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and 
straining  that  so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder, 
that  it  wore  and  chafed  to  the  bone,  Time,  consoler  of 
affliction  and  softener  of  anger,  could  do  nothing  to 
help  them.  Their  pride,  however  different  in  kind  and 
object,  was  equal  in  degree;  and,  in  their  flinty  opposi- 
tion, struck  out  fire  between  them  which  might  smoulder 
or  might  blaze,  as  circumstances  were,  but  burned  up 
everything  within  their  mutual  reach,  and  made  their 
marriage  way  a  road  of  ashes. 

Let  us  be  just  to  him:  In  the  monstrous  delusion  of 
his  life,  swelling  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  shifted 
in  its  glass,  he  urged  her  on,  he  little  thought  to  what, 
or  considered  how;  but  still  his  feeling  towards  her, 
sucli  as  it  was,  remained  as  at  first.  She  had  the  gnind 
demerit  of  unaccountably  putting  herself  in  opposition 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2^1 

to  the  recognition  o£  his  vast  importance,  and  to  the 
acknowledgment  of  her  complete  submission  to  it,  and 
so  far  it  was  necessary  to  correct  and  reduce  her;  but 
otherwise  he  still  considered  her,  in  his  cold  way,  a 
lady  capable  of  doing  honor,  if  she  would,  to  his  choice 
and  name,  and  of  reflecting  credit  on  his  proprietorship. 

Now,  she  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud 
resentment,  bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and 
hour  to  hour — from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber, 
when  she  had  sat  gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  to 
the  deeper  night  fast  coming — upon  one  figure  directing 
a  crowd  of  humiliations  and  exasperations  against  her; 
and  that  figure,  still  her  husband's. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey's  master-vice  that  ruled  him  so  in- 
exorably an  unnatural  characteristic  ?  It  might  be  worth 
while,  sometimes,  to  inquire  what  Nature  is,  and  how 
men  work  to  change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced 
distortions  so  produced,  it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural. 
Coop  any  son  or  daughter  of  our  mighty  mother  within 
narrow  range,  and  bind  the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and 
foster  it  by  servile  worship  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  few 
timid  or  designing  people  standing  round,  and  what  is 
Nature  to  the  wiUing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up 
upon  the  wings  of  a  free  mind — drooping  and  useless 
soon — to  see  her  in  her  comprehensive  truth! 

Alas!  are  there  so  few  thmgs  in  the  world  about  us, 
most  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so! 
Hear  the  magistrate  or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural 
outcasts  of  society;  unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnat- 
ural in  want  of  decency,  unnatural  in  losing  and  con- 
founding all  distinctions  between  good  and  evil; 
unnatural  in  ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in 
contumacy,  in  mind,  in  looks,  in  everything.  But  fol- 
low the  good  clergyman  or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life 
imperilled  at  every  breath  he  draws,  goes  down  into 
their  dens,  lying  within  the  echoes  of  our  carriage 
wheels  and  daily  tread  upon  the  pavement  stones. 
Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious  sights — millions 
of  immortal  creatures  have  no  other  world  on  earth — 
at  ^e  lightest  mention  of  which  humanity  revolts,  and 
dainty  delicacy,  living  in  the  next  street,  stops  her  ears, 
and  lisps,  "I  don't  believe  it!"  Breathe  the  polluted 
air,  foul  with  every  impurity  that  is  poisonous  to  health 
and  life;  and  have  every  sense,  conferred  upon  our  race 


222  DOMBKY  AKD  SON. 

for  its  delight  and  happiness,  offended,  sickened  and  dis- 
giisted,  and  made  a  channel  bywhich  misery  and  death 
alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to  think  oi  any  simple 
plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed,  that,  set  in  this 
foetid  bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth,  or  put  its 
little  leaves  forth  to  the  sun  as  God  designed  it.  And 
then,  calling  up  some  gliastly  child,  with  stunted  form 
and  wicked  face,  hold  forth  on  its  unnatural  sinfulness, 
and  lament  its  being,  so  early,  far  away  from  Heaven— 
but  think  a  little  of  its  having  been  conceived  and  bom 
and  bred  in  Hell! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  brii^ 
them  to  bear  upon  the  health  of  man,  tell  us  that  if  the 
noxious  particles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air  were  palpa- 
ble to  the  sight,  we  should  see  them  lowering  in  a  dense 
black  cloud  above  such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on 
to  corrupt  the  better  portions  of  a  town.  But  if  the 
moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and,  in  the  eter- 
nal laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them, 
could  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revela- 
tion! Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunken- 
ness, theft,  murder,  and  a  long  train  of  nameless  sins 
against  the  natural  affections  and  repulsions  of  man- 
kmd,  overhanging  the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on, 
to  blight  the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the 
pure.  Then  should  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned  loim- 
tains  that  flow  into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-faouses, 
inundate  the  jails,  and  make  the  convict-ships  swim 
deep,  and  roll  across  the  seas,  and  overrun  vast  conti- 
nents with  crime.  Then  should  we  stand  appalled  to 
know,  that  where  we  generate  disease  to  strike  our 
children  down  and  entail  itself  on  unborn  generations, 
there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same  certain  process,  in- 
fancy that  knows  no  innocence,  youth  w^ithout  modesty 
or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in  nothing  but  in 
suffering  and  in  guilt,  blasted  old  age  that  is  a  scandal 
on  the  form  we  bear.  Unnatural  humanity!  When  we 
shall  gather  grapes  from  thorns  and  figs  from  thistles: 
when  fields  of  grain  shall  spring  up  from  the  offal  in 
the  by  ways  of  our  wicked  cities,  and  roses  bloom  in 
the  fat  churchyards  that  they  cherish;  then  we  may 
look  for  natural  humanity,  and  find  it  growing  from  ' 
such  seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  wottld  take  the  house-tops  i 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  .  -iti 

oS,  with  a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the 
lame  demon  in  the  tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people 
what  dark  shapes  issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to 
swell  the  retinue  of  the  Destroying  Angel  as  he  moves 
forth  among  them!  For  only  one  night's  view  of' the 
pale  phantoms  rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too-long 
neglect;  and,  from  the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice 
and  Fever  propagate  together,  raining  the  tremendous 
social  retrioutions  which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and 
ever  coming  thickerl  Bright  and  hlest  the  morning  that 
should  rise  on  such  a  night:  for  men,  delayed  no  more 
by  stumbling-blocks  of  their  own  making,  which  are 
but  specks  of  dust  upon  the  path  between  them  and 
etermty,  would  then  apply  themselves,  like  creatures 
of  one  common  origin,  owning  one  duty  to  the  Father 
of  one  family,  and  tending  to  one  common  end,  to  make 
the  world  abetter  place! 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day  be  for 
rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out  upon  the 
world  of  human  life  around  them,  to  a  knowledge  of 
their  own  relation  to  it,  and  for  making  them  acquainted 
with  a  perversion  of  nature  in  their  own  contracted 
sympathies  and  estimates;  as  great,  and  yet  as  natural 
in  its  development  when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest 
degradation  known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey  or 
his  wife;  and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident, 
they  held  the  same  relations  one  towards  the  other.  A 
marble  rock  could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in 
his  way  than  she;  and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  un- 
cheered  by  any  ray  of  light  in  the  depths  of  a  deep 
cave,  could  be  more  sullen  or  more  cold  than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the 
promise  of  her  new  home  dawned,  was  quite  gone  from 
the  heart  of  Florence  now.  That  home  was  nearly  two 
years  old;  and  even  the  patient  trust  that  was  in  her 
could  not  survive  the  dailv  blight  of  such  experience. 
If  she  had  any  lingering  fancy  in  the  nature  of  hope 
left  that  Edith  and  her  father  might  he  happier  together 
in  some  distant  time,  she  had  none  now  that  her  father 
would  ever  love  her.  The  little  interval  in  which  she 
had  imagined  that  she  saw  some  small  relenting  in  him 
was  forgotten  in  the  long  remembrance  of  U\s  (i'i\.^t««a 


234  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

since  and  before,  or  only  remembered  as  a  sorrowful 
delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but  by  degrees  had  come  to 
love  him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who 
might  have  been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  her 
eyes.  Something  of  the  softened  sadness  with  which 
she  loved  the  memory  of  little  Paul,  or  her  mother, 
seemed  to  enter  now  into  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  to 
make  them,  as  it  were,  a  dear  remembrance.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  was  dead  to  her,  and  that  partly  for  this 
reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  those  old  objects  of  her 
affection,  and  partly  for  the  long  association  of  him 
with  hopes  that  were  withered  and  tendernesses  he  had 
frozen,  she  could  not  have  told;  but  the  father  whom 
she  loved  began  to  be  a  vague  and  dreamy  idea  to  her; 
hardly  more  substantially  connected  with  her  real  life 
than  the  image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up  of  her 
dear  brother  yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a  man,  who 
would  protect  and  cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on  her 
like  the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and  had 
come  with  it.  Florence  was  almost  seventeen,  when  in 
her  lonely  musings  she  was  conscious  of  these  thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  now,  for  the  old  association  be- 
tween her  and  her  mama  was  greatly  changed.  At  the 
time  of  her  father's  accident,  and  when  he  was  lying  in 
his  room  down-stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed  that 
Edith  avoided  her.  Wounded  and  shocked,  and  yet 
unable  to  reconcile  this  with  her  affection  when  they 
did  meet,  she  sought  her  in  her  own  room  at  night,  once 
more. 

"Mama,"  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  side, 
"have  I  offended  you?" 

Edith  answered,  "No." 

"  I  must  have  done  something,"  said  Florence.  "  Tell 
me  what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me, 
dear  mama,  I  cannot  say  how  instantly  I  feel  the  least 
change;  for  I  lovo  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

"As  I  do  you,"  said  Edith,  "Ah,  Florence,  believe 
me,  never  more  than  now! " 

"  Why  do  you  go  away  from  me  so  often,  and  keep 
away?  "  asked  Florence.  "  And  why  do  you  sometimes 
look  BO  strangely  on  me,  dear  mama?  You  do  so,  do 
you  not?" 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  SS5 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Why?"  returned  Florence,  imploringly.  "Tell  me 
wliy,  that  I  may  know  how  to  please  you  better;  and 
tell  me  this  shall  not  be  so  any  more." 

"  My  Florence,"  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand 
that  embraced  her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that 
looked  into  hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  knelt  upon  the 
ground  before  her;  "  why  it  is,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is 
neither  for  me  to  say,  nor  you  to  hear;  but  that  it  is, 
and  that  it  must  be,  I  know.  Should  I  do  it  if  I  did 
not?" 

"Are  we  to  be  estranged,  mama?"  asked  Florence, 
gazing  at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith's  silent  lips  formed  "  Yes." 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  won- 
der, until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blind- 
ing tears  that  ran  down  her  face. 

'■  Florence!  my  lifel "  said  Eldith,  hurriedly,  "  listen  to 
me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Be  calmer.  You 
see  that  I  am  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to  me?" 

She  resumed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she  said 
the  latter  words,  and  adaed  presently: 

"  Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially:  and  only  that,  in 
appearance,  Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast  I  am  still 
the  same  to  you,  and  ever  will  fie.  But  what  I  do  is  not 
done  for  myself," 

"  Is  it  for  me,  mama?"  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pause,  "to  know 
what'  it  is;  why,  matters  little.  Dear  Florence,  it  is 
better — it  is  necessary^t  must  be— that  our  association 
should  be  less  frequent.  The  confidence  there  has  been 
between  us  must  be  broken  off." 

"When?"  cried  Florence.     "  Oh,  mama,  when?" 

"Now," said  Edith. 

"  For  all  time  to  come?"  asked  Florence. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith.  "  I  do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I  say  that  companionship  between  us,  is, 
at  the  best,  an  ill-assorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which 
I  might  have  known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here 
has  been  through  paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and 
my  way  henceforth  may  lie — God  knows — I  do  not  see 
it~" 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence;  and  she  sat,  looking 
at  Florence  and  almost  shrinking  from  het ,  ■w\Sb. 'Cci'Si 


226  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

same  strange  dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence 
had  noticed  once  before.  The  eame  dark  pride  and  rage 
Bucceeded,  sweeping  over  her  form  and  features  like  an 
angry  chord  across  the  strings  of  a  wild  harpi  But  no 
souness  or  humility  ensued  on  that.  She  md  not  lay 
her  head  down  now,  and  weep,  and  say  that  she  had  no 
hope  but  in  Florence.  She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a 
beautiful  Medusa,  looking  on  him,  face  to  face,  to  strike 
him  dead.  Yes,  and  she  would  have  done  it,  if  she 
had  had  the  charm. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence  anxiously,  "  there  is  a  change 
in  you,  in  more  than  what  you  say  to  me,  which  alarms 
me.     Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little," 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "  no,  dearest.  I  am  best  left  alone 
now,  and  I  do  best  keep  apart  from  you,  of  all  else.  Ask 
me  no  questions,  but  oelieve  that  what  I  am  when  I 
seem  fickle  or  capricious  to  you,  I  am  not  of  my  own 
will,  or  for  myself.  Believe,  though  we  are  stranger 
to  each  other  tnan  we  have  been,  that  I  am  unchanged 
to  you  within.  Forgive  me  for  having  ever  darkened 
your  dark  home — I  am  a  shadow  on  it,  I  know  well— 
and  let  us  never  speak  of  this  again." 

"  Mama,"  sobbed  Florence,  "  we  are  not  to  part?  " 

"  We  do  this  that  we  may  not  part,"  said  Edith.  "  Ask 
no  more.  Go,  Florence!  My  love  and  my  remorse  go  with 
you ! " 

She  embraced  her  and  dismissed  her;  and  as  Florence 
passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retiring 
figure,  as  if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  foml,  and 
left  her  to  the  haughty  and  indignant  passions  that  now 
claimed  her  for  their  own,  and  set  their  seal  upon  her 
brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as  they  bad 
been,  no  more.  For  days  together,  they  would  seldom 
meet,  except  at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dorabey  was 
present.  Then  Edith,  imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent, 
never  looked  at  her.     Whenever  Mr.  Carker  was  of  the 

Sarty,  as  he  often  was,  during  the  progress  of  Mr.  Dom- 
ey's  recovery,  and  afterwards,  Edith  neld  herself  more 
removed  from  her,  and  was  more  distant  towards  her, 
than  at  other  times.  Yet  she  and  Florence  never  en- 
countered, when  there  was  no  one  by,  but  she  would 
embrace  her  as  affectionately  as  of  old.  though  not  with 
the  same  relonting  of  her  proud  aspect;  and  often,  when 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  '>:i7 

she  had  been  out  late,  ahe  woiild  steal  up  to  Florence's 
room,  as  she  had  been  used  to  do,  in  the  dark,  and 
whisper  "Good  night,"  on  her  pillow.  When  uncon- 
sciouBj  in  her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence  would 
sometimes  awake,  as  from  a  dream  of  those  words,  softly 
spoken,  and  would  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  lips  upon 
her  face.  But  less  and  less  often  as  the  months  went  on. 

And  now  the  void  in  Florence's  own  heart  began 
again,  indeed,  to  make  a  solitude  around  her.  As  the 
image  of  the  father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  be- 
come a  mere  abstraction,  so  Edith,  following  the  fate  of 
all  the  rest  about  whom  her  affections  had  entwined 
themselves,  was  fleeting,  fading,  growing  paler  in  the 
distance,  every  day.  Little  by  little,  she  receded  from 
Florence,  like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what  she  had  been; 
little  by  little,  the  chasm  between  them  widened  and 
seemea  deeper;  little  by  little,  all  the  power  of  earnest- 
ness and'  tenderness  she  had  shown,  was  frozen  up  in 
the  bold,  angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon 
the  brink  of  a  deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring 
to  look  down. 

There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against  the 
heavy  loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort 
to  her  burdened  heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some  relief. 
No  longer  divided  between  her  affection  and  duty  to  the 
two,  Iiorence  could  love  both  and  do  no  injustice  to 
either.  As  shadows  of  her  fond  imagination,  she  could 
give  them  equal  place  in  her  own  Doaom,  and  wrong 
Uiem  with  no  doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  times,  and  often  too,  wonder- 
ing speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith, 
would  obtrude  themselves  upon  her  mind  and  frighten 
her;  but  in  the  calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to 
silent  grief  and' loneliness,  it  was  not  a  curious  mind. 
Florence  had  only  to  remember  that  her  star  of  promise 
was  clouded  in  the  general  gloom  that  hung  upon  the 
house,  and  to  weep  and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a  dream  wherein  the  overflowing  love 
of  her  young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  forms,  and 
in  a  real  world  where  she  had  experienced  little  l)ut  the 
rolling  back  of  that  strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence 
grew  to  be  seventeen.  Timid  and  retiring  as  her  soli- 
tary life  had  made  her,  it  had  not  embittered  her  sweet 
temper,  or  her  earnest  nature.     A  ch\\4  m  mTvocft's*. 


288       ■  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

BimpUcity;  a  woman  in  her  modest  self-reliance,  and 
her  deep  intensity  of  feeling;  both  child  and  woman 
seemed  at  once  expressed  in  her  fair  face  and  fragile 
delicacy  of  shape,  and  gracefully  to  mingle  there; — as 
if  the  spring  should  be  unwilling  to  depart  when  sum- 
mer came,  and  sought  to  blend  the  earlier  beauties  of 
the  flowers  with  their  bloom.  But  in  her  thrilling 
voice,  in  her  calm  eyes,  sometimes  in  a  strange  ethereal 
light  that  seemed  to  rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in 
a  certain  pensive  air  upon  ner  beauty,  there  was  an  ex- 
pression, such  as  had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy;  and 
the  council  in  the  Servants'  Hall  whispered  so  among 
themselves,  and  shook  their  heads,  and  ate  and  draai 
the  more,  in  a  closer  bond  of  good-fellowship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
■  mediator  between  them,  and  who  came  and  went  as  if 
lie  were  trying  to  make  peace,  but  never  could.  Thev 
all  deplored  the  uncomfortable  state  of  affairs,  and  all 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  {whose  unpopularity  was  not 
to  be  surpassed)  had  some  hand  in  it;  but,  upon  the 
whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  so  good  a  subject  for  a 
rallying  point,  and  they  made  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  en- 
joyed tnemselves  very  much. 

The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  house,  and  those 
among  whom  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visited,  thought  it 
a  pretty  equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events, 
and  thought  nothing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady 
with  the  back  did  not  appear  ftfr  some  time  after  Mrs. 
Skewton's  death;  observing  to  some  particular  friends, 
with  her  usual  engaging  little  scream,  that  she  couldn't 
separate  the  family  from  a  notion  of  tombstones,  and 
horrors  of  that  sort;  but  when  she  did  come,  she  saw 
nothing  wrong,  except  Mr.  Dombey's  wearing  a  bunch 
of  gold  seals  to  hie  watch,  which  shockea  her  very 
much,  as  an  exploded  superstition.  This  youthful  fas- 
cinator considered  a  daughter-in-law  objectionable  in 
principle;  otherwise,  she  had  nothing  to  say  against 
Florence,  but  that  she  sadly  wanted  "style" — which 
might  mean  back,  perhaps.  Many,  who  only  came  to 
the  house  on  state  occasions,  hardly  knew  who  Florence 
was,  and  said,  going  home,  "  Indeed!  was  that  Miss 
Dombey,  in  the  comer?  Very  pretty,  but  a  little  deli- 
cate and  thoughtful  in  appearance! " 

D, -.11, Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  22ft 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  on 
the  day  before  the  second  anniversary  of  her  father's 
marriage  to  Edith  (Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying 
stricken  with  paralysis  when  the  first  came  round), 
with  an  uneasiness,  amounting  to  dread.  She  had  no 
other  warrant  for  it,  than  the  occasion,  the  expression 
of  her  father's  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she  caught  of 
it,  and  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  which,  always  un- 
pleasant to  lieiT  was  more  so  on  this  day,  than  she  had 
ever  felt  it  before. 

Edith  was  richlv  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey 
were  engaged  in  t'he  evening  to  some  large  assembly, 
and  the  dinner-hour  that  day  was  late.  She  did  not  ap- 
pear until  they  wei*  seated  at  table,  when  Mr.  Carker 
rose  and  led  her  to  her  chair.  Beautiful  and  lustrous 
as  she  was,  there  was  that  in  her  face  and  air  which 
sebmed  to  separate  her  hopelessly  from  Florence,  and 
from  every  one,  for  ever  more.  And  yet,  for  an  in- 
stant, Florence  saw  a  beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes, 
when  they  were  turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance 
to  which  she  had  withdrawn  herself,  a  greater  cause  of 
sorrow  and  regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  Httle  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard 
her  father  speak  to  Mr.  Carker  sometimes  on  business 
matters,  ana  heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little 
attention  to  what  they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner 
at  an  end.  When  the  dessert  was  placed  upon  the 
table,  and  they  were  left  alone,  with  no  servant  in  at- 
tendance, Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  several  times 
clearing  his  throat  in  a  manner  that  augured  no  good, 
said: 

"Mrs.  Dombey,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  I  have  in- 
structed the  housekeeper  that  there  will  bb  some  com- 
pany to  dinner  here  to-morrow," 

"I  do  not  dine  at  home,'  she  answered. 

"  Not  a  large  party,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
indifferentassumptionof  not  having  heard  her;  "merely 
some  twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister.  Major  Bagstock, 
and  some  others  whom  you  know  but  slightly." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home."  she  repeated. 

"  However  doubtful  reason  I  may  'have,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey," said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  as 
if  she  had  not  spoken,  "to  hold  the  occ8.ft\(iU  Vtv -^e^ 


230  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pleasant  remembrance  just  now,  there  are  appearances 
in  these  things  which  must  be  maintained  before  the 
world.  If  you  have  no  respect  for  yourself,  Mrs. 
Dombey — " 

"  I  have  none,"  she  said. 

"Madam,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon 
the  table,  "hear  me,  if  you  please.  I  say,  if  you  have 
no  respect  for  yourself — " 

"And  /  say  I  have  none,"  she  answered.  ■ 

He  looked  at  her;  but  the  face  she  showed  him  in 
return  would  not  have  changed,  if  death  itself  had 
looked. 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  to 
that  gentleman,  "as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  com- 
munication with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  fi*-mer  occasions,  and 
aa  I  choose  to  preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I 
am  individually  concerned,  I  will  trouble  you  to  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  Mrs,  Dombey  that  if  she  has  no 
respect  for  herself,  I  have  some  respect  for  mj/self,  and 
therefore  insist  on  my  arrangements  for  to-morrow." 

"  Tell  your  sovereign  master,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  that 
I  will  take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by-zmd- 
by,  and  that  I  will  apeak  to  him  alone." 

"  Mr.  Carker,  madam,'"  said  her  husband,  "  being  in 
possession  of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you 
that  privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of 
any  such  message."  He  saw  her  eyes  move,  while  he 
spoke,  and  followed  them  with  his  own. 

"  Your  daughter  is  present,  sir,"  siiid  Edith. 

"  My  daughter  will  remain  present,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  trembling. 

"  My  daughter,  madam" — began  Mr.  Dombey. 

But  Edith  •  stopped  him,  in  a  voice  which,  although 
not  raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  dis- 
tinct, that  it  might  have  been  heard  in  a  whirlwind. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  are  not  mad,  heed  what  I  say." 

"  I  have  authority  to  speak  to  you,  madam,"  returned 
her  husband,  "  when  and  where  I  please;  and  it  is  my 
pleasure  to  speak  here  and  now," 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room;  but  sat  down 
again,  and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure, 
said,  in  the  same  voicot 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  231 

"You  shall!" 

"  I  must  tell  you  first,  that  there  is  a  threatening  ap- 
pearance in  your  manner,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
' "  which  does  not  become  you." 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair  started 
and  trembled.  There  are  fables  of  precious  stones  that 
would  turn  pale,  their  wearer  being  in  danger.  Had 
these  been  such,  their  imprisoned  rays  of  light  would 
have  taken  flight  that  moment,  and  they  would  have 
been  as  dull  as  lead. 

Carker  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"As  to  my  daughter^  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  re- 
suming the  thread  of  his  discourse,  "  it  is  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  her  duty  to  me,  that  she  should  know 
what  conduct  to  avoid.  At  present  you  are  a  very 
strong  example  to  her  of  this  kind,  and  I  hope  she  may 
profit  by  it." 

"  I  would  not  stop  you  now,"  returned  his  wife,  im- 
movable in  eye,  and  voice,  and  attitude;  "  I  would  not 
rise  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one 
word,  if  Hie  room  were  burning." 

Mr,  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a  sarcastic  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But  not 
with  so  much  self-possession  as  before;  for  Edith's  quick 
uneasiness  in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edith's  indiffer- 
ence to  him  and  his  censure,  chafed  and  galled  him  like 
a  stiffening  wound. 

"  Mrs,  Dombey,"  said  he,  "  it  may  not  be  inconsistent 
with  my  daughter's  improvement  to  know  how  very 
much  to  be  lamented,  ana  how  necessary  to  be  corrocten, 
a  stubborn  disposition  is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged 
in — unthankfully  indulged  in,  I  will  add — after  the  grati- 
fication of  ambition  and  interest.  Both  of  which,  I 
believe,  had  some  share  in  inducing  you  to  occupy  your 
present  station  at  this  board." 

"  No!  I  would  not  rise,  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the 
utterance  of  one  word,"  she  repeated,  exactly  as  before, 
"  if  the  room  were  burning." 

"  It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  pur- 
sued, "that  you  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of 
any  auditors  of  these  disagreeable  truths;  tnough  why 
—  he  could  not  hide  his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  his 
eyes  from  glancing  gloomily  at  Florence — "why  anv 
one  can  give  them  greater  force  aad^iTAWawTa^fASX., 


a38  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

whom  they  so  nearly  concern,  I  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand. It  may  be  natural  enough  that  you  should 
object  to  hear,  in  anybody's  presence,  that  there  is  a 
rebellious  principle  within  you  which  you  cannot  curb' 
too  soon;  which  you  must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey;  and 
which,  I  regret  to  say,  I  remember  to  have  seen  mani- 
fested— with  some  doubt  and  displeasure,  on  more  than 
one  occasion  before  our  marriage — towards  your  de- 
ceased mother.  But  you  have  the  remedy  in  your  own 
hands.  I  hy  no  means  forgot,  when  I  hegan,  that  mv 
daughter  was  present,  Mrs.  Dombey.  I  beg  you  will 
not  forget,  to-morrow,  that  there  are  several  persons 
present;  and  that,  with  some  regard  to  appearances,  you 
will  receive  your  company  in  a  oecoming  manner." 

"  So  it  is  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  "that  you  know 
what  has  passed  between  yourself  and  me;  it  is  not 
enough  that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker, 
who  still  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  "  and  be  re- 
minded of  the  affronts  you  have  put  upon  me;  it  is  not 
enough  that  vou  can  look  here,'  pointing  to  Florence 
with  a  hand  tiiat  slightly  trembled  for  the  first  and  only 
time,  "and  think  of  what  you  have  done,  and  of  the  in- 
genious agony,  daily,  hourly,  constant,  you  have  made 
me  feel  in  doing  it;  it  is  not  enough  that  this  day,  of  all 
others  in  the  year,  is  memorable  to  me  for  a  struggle 
(well- deserved,  but  not  conceivable  by  such  as  vou)  in 
which  I  wish  I  had  diedl  You  add  to  all  this,  do  you, 
the  last  crowning  meanness  of  making  her  a  witness  of 
the  depth  to  which  I  have  fallen;  when  you  know  that 
you  have  made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace,  the  only  gentle 
feeling  and  interest  of  my  life;  when  you  know  that  for 
her  sake,  I  would  now  if  I  could^but  I  can  not,  my  soul 
recoils  from  you  too  much — submit  myself  wholly  to 
your  will,  and  be  the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have! " 

This  was  not  the  way  to  minister  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness.  The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she  said, 
into  a  stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had  ever 
had.  Again,  bis  neglected  child,  at  this  rough  passage 
of  his  life,  put  forth  by  even  this  rebellious  woman,  as 

Eowerful  where  he  was  powerless,  and  everything  where 
e  was  nothing! 

He  turned  on  Florence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had 
spoken,  and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence  with  her 
covered  face  obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she  went. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  233 

"I  understand,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
angry  flush  ot  triumph,  "the  spirit  of  opposition  that 
turned  your  affectioos  in  that  channel,  out  they  have  - 
been  met,  Mrs.  Dombey;  they  have  been  met,  and 
turned  back!" 

"The  worse  for  you!"  she  answered,  with  her  voice 
and  manner  still  unchanged.  "Ayl"  for  he  turned 
sharply  when  she  said  so,  "what  is  the  worse  for  me,  is 
twenty  iniUion  times  the  worse  for  you.  Heed  that,  if 
you  heed  nothing  else." 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair,  flashed 
and  glittered  like  a  starry  bride.  There  was  no  warn- 
ing in  them,  or  they  woilld  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim  as 
tarnished  honor.  Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with  his 
eyes  cast  down. 

"Mrs.  Dombejv," said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much 
as  he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  "you  will  not 
conciliate  me,  or  turn  me  from  any  purpose,  by  this 
course  of  conduct." 

"  It  is  the  only  true  although  it  is  a  faint  expression 
of  what  is  within  me,"  she  replied.  "But  if  I  thought 
it  would  conciliate  you,"I  would  express  it,  if  it  were  re- 
pressible  by  any  human  effort.  I  will  do  nothing  that 
you  ask." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  ob- 
served; "  I  direct." 

"  1  will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  or  on 
any  recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I  will  be  exhibited  to  no 
one,  as  the  refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a  time. 
If  I  kept  my  marriage-day,  I  would  keep  it  as  a  day  of 
shame.  Self-respect!  appearances  before  the  world! 
what  are  these  to  me?  You  have  done  all  you  can  to 
make  them  nothing  to  me,  and  they  are  nothuig." 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sj)eaking  with  knitted 
brows,  and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey is  so  forgetful  of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and 
f  laces  me  in  a  position  so  unsuited  to  my  character,  that 
must  bring  this  stato  of  matters  to  a  close." 

"Release  me,  then,"  said  Edith,  immovable  in  voice, 
in  look,  and  bearing,  as  she  has  been  throughout,  "  from 
the  chain  by  which  I  am  bound.     Let  me  go." 

"  Madam?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Loose  me.    Set  me  free! " 

"Madam?"  he  repeated,  "Mrs.  Dombey^" 


'^34  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Tell  him,"  said  Edith,  addresBing  her  proud  face  to 
Carker,  "that  I  wiah  for  a  separation  between  us.  That 
there  had  better  be  one.  That  I  recommend  it  to  bim. 
Tell  him  it  may  take  place  on  his  own  terms — his  wealth 
is  nothing  to  me — but  that  it  cannot  be  too  soon." 

"Good  Heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey!"  said  her  husband, 
with  supreme  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  it  possible 
that  I  could  ever  listen  to  such  a  proposition?  Do  you 
know  who  I  am,  madajn?  Do  you  know  what  I  repre- 
sent? Did  you  ever  hear  of  Dombey  and  Son?  People 
to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey — Mr.  Dombey! — was  separated 
from  his  wife!  Common  people  to  talk  of  Mr.  Dombey 
and  his  domestic  affairs!  Do  yoU  seriously  think,  Mrs. 
Dombey,  that  I  would  permit  mv  name  to  be  handed 
about  in  such  connexion?  Poon,  pooh,  madam!  Fie 
for  shamel  You're  absurd."  Mr.  Dombey  absolutely 
laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead 
than  laugh  as  she  did,  in  reply,  with  her  intent  look 
fixed  upon  him.  He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than 
sitting  there,  in  his  magnificence,  to  hear  her. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  resumed,  "  no,  madam.  There 
is  no  possibility  of  separation  between  you  and  me,  iuid 
therefore  I  the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  duty.  And,  Carker,  as  I  was  about  to  say  to 
you — " 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time, 
now  raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  bright  un- 
usual light. 

" — As  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,"  resumed  Mr.  Dom- 
bejf,  "  I  must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come  to 
this,  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  it  is  not  the  rule  of 
my  life  to  allow  myself  to  be  thwarted  by  anybody — 
anybody,  Carker — or  to  suffer  anybody  to  be  paraded 
as  a  stronger  motive  for  obedience  in  those  wno  owe 
obedience  to  me  than  1  am  myself.  The  mention  that 
has  been  made  of  my  daughter,  and  the  use  that  is  made 
of  my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me,  are  unnatural. 
Whether  my  dauehter  is  in  actual  concert  with  Mrs. 
Dombey,  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care;  but  after  what 
Mrs.  Dombey  has  said  to-day,  and  my  daughter  has 
heard  to-day,  I  beg  j^ou  to  make  known  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, that  if  she  contmues  to  make  this  house  the  scene 
of  contention  it  has  become,  I  shall  consider  my  daugfa- 


nOMBEY  AND  SON.  335 

ter  responsible  in  some  de^ee,  on  that  lady's  own 
avowal,  and  shall  visit  her  with  ray  severe  displeaBure. 
Mrs.  Domhey  has  asked  '  whether  it  is  not  enough,'  that 
she  had  done  this  and  that.  You  will  please  to  answer 
DO,  it  is  not  enough." 

"  A  moment! "  cried  Carker,  interposing,  "  permit  me! 
painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  oest,  and  unusually 
painful  in  seemmg  to  entertain  a  di£ferent  opinion  from 
you,"  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  must  ask,  had  you 
not  better  re-consider  the  question  of  a  separation,  I 
know  how  incompatible  it  appears  with  your  high  pub- 
lic position,  and  I  know  how  determined  you  are  when 
you  give  Mrs.  Dombey  to  understand  " — the  light  in  his 
eyes  fell  upon  her  as  he  separated  his  words  each  from 
each,  with  the  distinctness  of  so  many  hells — "that 
nothing  but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing  else. 
But  when  you  consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living  in 
this  house,  and  making  it,  as  you  have  said.'a  scene  of 
contention,  not  only  as  her  part  in  that  contention,  but 
compromises  Miss  Domhey  every  day  (for  I  know  how 
determined  you  are),  will  you  not  relieve  her  from  a 
continual  irritation  of  spirit,  and  a  continual  sense  of 
being  unjust  to  another,  almost  intolerable?  Does  this 
not  seem  like — I  do  not  say  it  is — sacrificing  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey to  the  preservation  of  your  pre-eminent  and  unas- 
sailable position?"- 

A^ain  the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  husband:  now  with  an  extraordinary  and 
awful  smile  upon  her  face. 

"  Carker,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  supercilious 
frown,  and  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  He  final, 
"  you  mistake  your  position  in  offering  advice  to  me  on 
such  a  point,  and  you  mistake  me  f  I  am  surprised  to  find) 
in  the  character  of  your  advice,    I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  inde- 
finable taunt  in  his  air,  "  you  mistook  my  position,  when 
you  honored  me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  I  have 
been  engMjed  here  " — with  a  motion  of  his  hand  towards 
Mrs.  Dombey. 

"Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  other  haugh- 
tily.    "  You  were  employed—" 

"  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mrs. 
Dombey.  I  forgot.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  expressly  under- 
stood!" said  Carker.     "  I  hegyour  pardon'." 


336  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

As  he  bent  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  air  of 
deference  that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  thoug;h  they 
were  humbly  spoken,  he  moved  it  round  towards  her, 
and  kept  his  watching  eyes  that  way. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a  smile  upon  her  face,  in 
such  a  fallen  spirit's  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She 
lifted  her  hand  to  the  tiara  of  bright  jewels  radiant  od 
her  head,  and,  plucking  it  off  with  a  force  that  dragged 
and  strained  her  rich  black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty, 
and  brought  it  tumbling  wildly  on  her  shoulders, 
cast  the  gems  upon  the  ground.  From  each  arm,  she 
unclasped  a  diamond  bracelet,  flung  it  down  and  trod 
upon  the  glittering  heap.  Without  a  word,  without  a 
shadow  on  the  fire  of  her  bright  eye,  without  abatement 
of  her  awful  smile,  she  looked  on  Mr.  Dombey  to  the 
last,  in  moving  to  the  door;  and  left  him. 

Florence  had  heard  enough  before  quitting  the  room, 
to  know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet;  that  she  had  suffered 
for  her  sake;  and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet, 
lest  they  should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want 
to  speak  to  her  of  this — she  could  not,  remembering  to 
whom  she  was  opposed — but  she  wished,  in  one  suent 
and  affectionate  embrace,  to  assure  her  that  she  felt  it 
alL  and  thanked  her. 

Her  father  went  out  alone,  that  evening,  and  Florence 
issuing  from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterwards,  wen* 
about  the  house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly. 
She  was  in  her  own  rooms,  where  Florence  had  long 
ceased  to  go,  and  did  not  dare  to  venture  now,  lest  she 
should '  unconsciously  engender  new  trouble.  StilJ 
Florence,  hoping  to  meet  her  before  going  to  bed, 
changed  from  room  to  room,  and  wanJereu  through 
the  house  so  splendid  and  so  dreary,  without  remaining 
anywhere. 

She  was  crossing  a  gallery  of  communicatiop  that 
opened  at  some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was 
only  lighted  on  great  occasions,  when  she  saw  through 
the  opening,  which  was  an  arch,  the  figure  of  a  man 
coming  down  some  few  stairs  opposite.  Instinctively 
apprehensive  of  her  father,  whom  she  supposed  it  was, 
she  stopped,  in  the  dark,  gazing  through  the  arch  into 
the  light.  But  it  was  Mr.  Carker  commg  down  ^une, 
and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  halL     No  bell  was 


DOMBEY.  AND  SON.  237 

rung  to  announce  hia  departure,  and  no  seivant  was  in 
attendance.  He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the  door 
for  himBelf,  glided  out,  and  shut  it  softly-after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps 
the  stealthy  act  of  watching  any  one,  which,  even 
under  such  innocent  circumstances,  is  in  a  manner 
guilty  and  oppressive,  made  Florence  shake  from  head 
to  foot.  Her  blood  seemed  to  run  cold.  Ab  soon  as  she 
could — for  at  first  she  felt  an  insurmountable  dread  of 
moving — she  went  quickly  to  her  own  room  and  locked 
her  door:  but  even  then,  shut  in  with  her  dog  beside  her, 
felt  a  chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  if  there  were  danger 
brooding  somewhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Rising  in  the  morning.unrefreshed,  and  with  a  heavy 
recollection  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  precea- 
ing  day,  she  sought  Edith  again,  in  all  the  rooms,  and 
did  so,  from  time  to  time,  all  the  morning.  But  she  re- 
mained in  her  own  chan.ber,  and  Florence  saw  nothing 
of  her.  Learning,  however,  that  the  projected  dinner 
at  home  was  put  off,  Florence  thought  it  likely  that  she 
would  go  out  in  the  evening  to  fulfil  the  engagement 
she  had  spoken  of:  and  resolved  to  try  and  meet  her, 
then,  upon  the  staircase. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the 
room  in  which  she  sat  on  purpose,  a  footstep  on  the 
stairs  that  she  thought  to  be  Edith's.  Hurrying  out, 
and  up  towards  her  room,  Florence  met  her  muue- 
diately,  coming  down  alone. 

What  was  Florence's  affright  and  wonder  when,  at 
sight  of  her  with  her  tearuil  face,  and  outstretched 
arms.  Edith  recoiled  and  shrieked! 

"Don't  come  near  me!"  she  cried,  "Keep  away! 
Let  me  goby!" 

"Mama!"  said  Florence. 

"Don't  call  me  by  that  name!  Don't  speak  tome! 
Don't  look  at  me  I — Florence!"  shrinking  back,  as 
Florence  moved  a  step  towards  her,  "  don't  touch  me! " 

As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  tlie  haggard  face 
and  staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  ift  a  dream,  that  Edith 
spread  her  hands  over  them,  and,  shuddering  through 
all  her  form,  and  crouching  down  against  the  wall, 
crawled  by  her  like  some  lower  animal,  sprang  up,  and 
fled  away. 


2:j.-.  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a  swoon;  andwa& 
found  there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  sumjosed.  She  knew 
nothing  more,  until  she  found  hereelf  lying  on  her  own 
bed,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  some  servants  standing 
round  her. 

'•  Where  is  mama?  "  was  her  first  4)uestioD. 

"  Gone  out  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  And  papa.?" 

"  Mr.  Dombey's  in  hisown  room,  Miss  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  the  best  thing'  you  can  do,  is  to  take 
off  your  things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute."  This  was 
the  sagacious  woman's  remedy  for  all  complaints,  par- 
ticularly lowness  of  spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep;  for 
which  offences  many  young  victims  in  the  days  of  thu 
Brighton  Castle  had  been  committed  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock 
in  trie  morning. 

Without-  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  de- 
siring* to  be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  nerself,  as 
soon  as  she  could,  from  the  ministration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  her  attendants.  Left*  alone,  she  thought  of  what 
had  happened  on  tlie  staircase,  at  first  in  doubt  of  its 
reality;  then  with  tears;  then  with  an  indescribable  and 
terrible  alarm,  like  that  she  had  felt  the  ni^ht  before. 

She  determined  not  to  eo  to  bed  until  Edith  returned, 
and  if  she  could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure  that 
she  was  safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy 
dread  moved  Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not 
know,  and  did  not  dare  to  think.  She  only  knew  that 
until  Edith  came  back  there  was  no  repose  for  her  ach- 
ing head  or  throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night;  midnight  came;  no 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  or  rest  a  moment.  She  paced 
her  own  room,  oitened  the  door  and  paced  the  staircase- 
gallery  outside,  looked  out  of  window  on  the  night,  list- 
ened to  the  wind  hlowing  and  the  rain  falling,  sat  down 
and  watched  the  faces  in  the  fire,  got  up  and  watched 
the  moon  flying  like  a  storm-driven  ship  through  the  sea 
of  clouds. 

All  the  house  was  gone  to  bed  except  two  servants 
who  were  waiting  the  return  of  their  mistress,  down- 
stairs. 

One  o'clock.  The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  dis- 
tance, turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  went  past;  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  230 

silence  gradually  deepened,  and  was  more  and  more 
rarely  broken,  save  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain. 
Two  o'clock.    No  Edith. 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  her  room;  and  paced 
the  gallery  outside;  and  loosed  out  at  the  night,  blurred 
and  wavy  with  the  rain-drops  on  the  glass,  and  the  tears 
in  her  own  eyes;  and  looked  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky, 
so  different  from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tran- 
quil and  solitary.  Three  o'clock!  There  was  a  ter- 
ror in  every  ash  that  dropped  out  of  the  fire.    No  Edith 

yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room, 
and  paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with 
a  new  fancy  of  her  likeness  to  a  pale  fugitive  hurrying 
away  and  hiding  her  guilty  face.  Four  struck!  Five! 
No  Edith  yet. 

But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house; 
and  Florence  found  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  awak- 
ened by  one  of  those  who  sat  up,  bad  risen  and  had 
gone  down  to  her  father's  door.  Stealing  lower  down 
le  stairs  and  observing  what  passed,  she  saw  her  father 
come  out  in  his  morning  gown,  and  start  when  he  was 
told  his  wife  had  not  come  home.  He  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  the  stables  to  inquire  whether  the  coachman 
was  there;  and  while  the  man  was  gone,  dressed  him- 
self very  hurriedly. 

The  man  came  back  in  great  haste,  bringingthe  coacli- 
man  with  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home  and  in  bcl 
since  ten  o'clock.  He  had  driven  his  mistress  to  her  old 
bouse  in  Brook-street,  where  she  had  been  met  by  Mr. 
Carter — 

Florence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  seen 
him  coming  down.  Again  she  shivered  with  the  name- 
less terror  of  that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness 
enough  to  hear  and  understand  what  followed. 

— who  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his 
mistress  would  not  want  the  carriage  to  go  home  in; 
and  had  dismissed  him. 

She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in  the  face,  and  heard 
him  ask  in  a  quick,  trembling  voice,  for  Mrs.  Dombey's 
maid.  The  wbole  house  was  roused;  for  she  was  there 
in  a  moment,  very  pale  too,  and  speaking  incoherently. 

She  said  she  bad  dressed  her  mistress  early — full  two 
hours  before  she  went  out — and  had  been  Wi.^,  ^a  ^^ 


240  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

often  was,  that  she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.    She 
had  just  come  from  her  miHtress's  rooms,  but — 

"  But  what!  what  was  it?  "  Florence  heard  her  father 
demand  like  a  madman. 

' '  But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  the  key 
gone."  Her  father  seized  a  candle  that  was  flaming  on 
the  ground — some  one  had  put  it  down  there)  and  for- 
gotten it — and  came  running  up-stairs  with  such  fury, 
uiat  Florence,  in  her  fear,  had  hardly  time  to  fly  before 
1'im.  She  heard  him  striking  in  the  door,  as  she  ran  on  ■ 
with  her  hands  wildly  spreaB,  and  her  hair  streaming, 
and  her  face  like  a  distracted  person's,  back  to  her  owu 
room. 

When  the  door  yielded,  and  he  rushed  in,,  what  did 
he  see  there?  No  one  knew.  But  thrown  down  in  a 
costly  mass  upon  the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she 
had  had,  since  she  had  been  his  wife;  every  dress  she 
had  worn;  and  everything  she  had  possessed.  This 
was  the  room  in  which  he  had  seen,  in  yonder  mirror, 
the  proud  face  discard  him.  This  was  the  room  in 
which  he  had  wondered,  idly,  how  these  things  would 
look  when  he  should  see  them  next! 

Heaping  them  hack  into  the  drawers,  and  locking 
them  up  in  a  rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the 
table.  The  deed  of  settlement  he  bad  executed  on  their 
marriage,  and  a  letter.  He  read  that  she  was  gone. 
He  read  that  he  was  dishonored.  He  read  that  she  had 
fled,  upon  her  shameful  wedding-day,  with  the  man 
whom  ne  had  chosen  for  her  humiliation;  and  he  tore 
out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house,  with  a  frantic 
idea  of  finding  her  yet,  at  the  place  to  which  she  had 
been  taken,  and  beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the 
triumphant  face  with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a  shawl 
and  bonnet,  in  a  dream  of  running  through  the  streets 
until  she  found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her  in  her 
arms,  to  save  and  bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hur- 
ried out  upon  the  staircase,  and  saw  the  frightened  ser- 
vants going  up  and  down  with  lights,  and  whispering 
together,  and  falling  away  from  her  father  as  he  passed 
down,  Khe  awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  powerlessness; 
and  hiding  in  one  of  the  great  rooms  that  had  been 
made  gorgeous  for  this,  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  hurst 
with  grief. 

Digilizcdt^GoOgle 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  241 

Compassion  For  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emo- 
tion that  made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  which 
overwhelmed  her.  Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him 
in  his  distress,  as  fervently  and  faithfully,  as  if,  in  his 
prosperity,  he  had  been  the  embodiment  of  that  idea 
which  had  gradually  become  so  faint  and  dim.  Although 
she  did  not  know,  otherwise  than  through  the  sugges- 
tions of  a  shapeless  fear,  the  full  extent  of  his  calamity, 
he  stood  before  her  wronged  and  deserted;  and  again 
her  yearning  love  impelled  her  to  his  side. 

He  was  not  long  away:  for  Florenco  was  yet  weeping 
in  the  great  room  and  nourishing  these  thoughts,  when 
she  heard  him  come  back.  He  ordered  the  servants  to 
set  about  their  ordinary  occupations,  and  went  into  his 
own  apartment,  where  he  trod  so  heavily  that  she 
could  near  him  walking  up  and  down  from  end  to 
end. 

Yielding  at  once  to  the  impulse  of  her  affection, 
timid  at  all  other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in 
his  adversity  and  undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence, 
dressed  as  she  was,  hurried  down-stairs.  As  she  set 
her  light  foot  in  the  hall,  he  came  out  of  his  room. 
She  hastened  towards  him  unchecked,  with  her  arms 
stretched  out,  and  crying  "  Oh  dear,  dear  papa! "  as  if 
she  would  have  clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy  he 
lifted  up  his  cruel  arm  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with 
that  heaviness  that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor; 
and  as  he  dealt  the  blow  he  told  her  what  Edith  was, 
and  bade  her  follow  her,  since  they  had  always  been  in 
league. 

Soe  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet;  she  did  not  shut 
out  the  sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands;  she  did 
not  weep;  she  did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But 
she  looked  at  him,  and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from 
her  heart.  For  as  she  looked,  she  saw  him  murdering 
that  fond  idea  to  which  she  had  held  in  spite  of  him. 
She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred  dominant  above 
it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had  no  father 
upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 

Ban  out  of  his  house.  A  moment  and  her  hand  was 
on  the  lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there, 
made  paler  by  the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and 
guttering  away,  and  by  the  daylight  coming  \iv  ^Joonvs 


243  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  door.  Another  moment,  and  the  close  darkness  of 
the  shut-up  house  (forgotten  to  be  opened,  though  it 
was  long  since  day)  yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare  and 
freedom  of  the  morning;  and,  Florence,  with  ner  head 
bent  down  to  hide  her  agony  of  tears,  waa  in  the 


CHAPTER  rvill. 

THE  PLIGHT  OP  FLORENCE. 

In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the 
forlorn  girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a  bright 
morning,  as  if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night. 
Wringing  her  hands  and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  deep  wound  in  her  breast,  stunned 
by  the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left  like  the  sole  survivor 
on  a  lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a  great  vessel,  she 
fled  without  a  thought,  without  a  hope,  without  a  pur- 
pose, but  to  fly  somewhere — anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by 
the  morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy 
clouds,  the  vigorous  freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed 
and  rosy  in  its  conquest  of  the  night,  awakened  no  re- 
sponsive feelings  in  her  so  hurt  oosom.  Somewhere, 
anywhere,  to  hide  her  head!  somewhere,  anywhere,  for 
refuge,  never  more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which 
she  ned! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro;  there  were 
opening  shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses; 
there  was  the  rising  clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  strug- 

§le.  Florence  saw  surprise  and  curiosity  in  the  faces 
itting  past  herj  saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon 
the  pavement;  and  heard  voices  that  were  strange  to 
her  asking  her  where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter 
was;  and  though  these  frightened  her  the  more  at  first, 
and  made  her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they  did  her  the 
good  service  of  recalling  her  in  some  degree  to  heraelf, 
and  reminding  her  of  the  necessity  of  greater  com- 
posure. 
Where  to  go?    Still  somewhere,  anywhere!  stitlgoing 


DOMBEY  AND  SON;  U3 

on;  but  where!  She  thought  of  the  only  other  time  she 
had  been  lost  in  the  wild  wilderness  of  London — though 
not  lost  as  now — and  went  that  way.  To  the  home  of 
Walter's  uncle. 

Checking  her  sobe,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavoring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as 
to  avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep 
to  the  more  quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going 
on  more  quietly  herself,  when  a  familiar  little  shadow 
darted  past  upon  the  sunny  pavement,  stopped  short, 
wheeled  about,  came  close  to  her,  made  off  again, 
bounded  round  and  round  her,  and  Diogenes,  panting 
for  breath,  and  yet  making  the  street  ring  with  his  glad 
bark,  was  at  her  feet, 

"Oh,  Di!  oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you 
come  here!  How  could  I  ever  leave  you,  Di,  who  would 
never  leave  me! " 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,  and  laid  his 
rough,  old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and 
they  got  up  together,  and  went  on  together;  Di  more 
off  the  ground  than  on  it,  endeavoring  to  kiss  his  mis-  - 
tress  flymg,  tumbling  over  and  getting  up  again  with- 
out the  least  concern,  dashing  at  big  do^  in  a  jocose 
defiance  of  his  species,  terrifying  with  touches  of  his 
nose  young  housemaids  who  were  cleaning  doorsteps, 
and  continually  stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand 
extravagances,  to  look  back  at  Florence,  and  bark  until 
all  the  dogs  within  hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs 
who  could  come  out,  came  out  to  stare  at  him. 

With  this  last  adherent,  Florence  hurried  away  in  the 
advancing  morning,  and  the  strengthening  sunshine,  to 
the  city.  The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passongers 
more  numerous,  the  shops  more  busy,  until  she  was  car- 
ried onward  in  a  stream  of  life  setting  that  way,  and 
flowing  indifferently,  passed  marts  and  mansions,  pris- 
ons, churches,  market-places,  wealth,  poverty,  gooa  and 
evil,  like  the  broad  river,  side  by  side  with  it,  awakened 
from  its  dreams  of  rushes,  willows,  and  green  moss, 
and  rolling  on,  turbid  and  troubled,  among  the  works 
and  cares  of  men,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  Midshipman  arose 
in  view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  Midshipman  himself 
was  seen  upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever  on  his  observa- 
tions.    Nearer  yet,  and  the  door  stood  open,,  vavi^Sswt 


344  130MBEY  AND  SON. 

her  to  enter,  Florence,  who  had  again  quickened  her 
pace,  as  she  approached  the  end  of  her  journey,  ran 
across  the  road  (closely  followed  by  Diogenes,  whom 
the  bustle  had  somewhat  confused),  ran  iu,  and  sank 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  well-remembered  little  parlor. 

The  captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the 
fire,  making  his  morning's  cocoa,  with  that  elegant 
trifle,  his  watch,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  refer- 
ence during  the  progress  of  the  cookery.  Hearing  a 
footstep  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  the  captain  turned 
with  a  palpitating  remembrance  <»f  the  dreadful  Mrs. 
MacStiuger,  at  the  instant  when  Florence  made  a  mo- 
tion with  her  hand  towards  him,  reeled,  and  fell  upon 
the  floor. 

The  captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs 
upon  his  lace,  raised  her  like  a  baby  and  laid  her  on  the 
same  old  sofa  upon  which  she  had   slumbered  long  ago. 

"It's  Heart's  Delight!"  said  the  captain,  looking  m- 
tently  in  her  face.     "It's   the  sweet   creetur  grow'd  s 


Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such 
a  reverence  for  her  in  this  new  character,  that  he  would 
not  have  held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  uncon- 
scious, for  a  thousand  pounds. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight! "  said  the  captain,  withdrawing 
to  a  little  distance,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sym- 
pathy depicted  on  his  countenance.  "If  you  can  nail 
Ned  Cuttle  with  a  finger,  do  it." 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight,"  said  the  trembling  captain, 
"  For  the  sake  of  Wal'r  drowned  in  the  briny  deep,  turn 
to  and  histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able! " 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration 
also.  Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast-table  a 
basin  of  cold  water  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face. 
Yielding  to  the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  captain  then, 
using  his  immense  hand  with  extraordinarj-  gentleness, 
relieved  her  of  her  bonnet,  moistened  her  lips  and  fore- 
head, put  back  her  hair,  covered  her  feet  with  his  own 
coat  wliich  he  pulled  off  for  the  purpose,  patted  her 
hand — so  small  in  his  that  he  was  struck  with  wonder 
when  he  touched  it— and  seeing  that  her  eyelids  quivered 
and  her  lips  began  to  move,  continued  these  restorative 
applications  with  a  better  heart. 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  845 

"  Cheerily,"  said  the  captain.  "  Cheerily!  Stand  by, 
my  pretty  one,  stand  by!  There!  You're  better  now. 
3teady'B  the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her  so !  Brink 
a  little  dropo'  this  here,"  said  the  captain.  "  There  you 
are!     What  cheer  now,  my  pretty,  what  cheer,  now?" 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery,  Captain  Cuttle,  with  an 
imperfect  association  of  a  Watch  with  a  Physician's 
treatment  of  a  patient,  took  his  own  down  from  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  holding  it  out  on  his  hook  and  taking 
Florence's  hand  in  his,  looked  steadily  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  expecting  the  dial  to  do  something. 

"  What  cheer,  my  pretty? "  said  the  captain.  "  What 
cheer  now?  You  done  her  some  good  my  lad,  1  believe," 
said  the  captain,  under  his  breath,  and  throwing  an 
approving  glance  upon  his  watch.  "  Put  you  back  half 
an  hour  every  morning  and  about  another  quarter 
towards  the  afternoon,  and  you're  a  watch  as  can  be 
ekalled  by  few  and  excelled  by  none.  What  cheer,  my 
lady  lass! " 

Captain  Cuttle!  Is  it  you! "  exclaimed  Florence,  raising 
herself  a  little. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  hastily 
deciding  in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance 
of  that  form  of  address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could 
think  of. 

"  Is  Walter's  uncle  here? "  asked  Florence. 

"Here,  pretty!  "  returned  the  captain.  "  He  an 't  been 
here  this  man^y  a  long  day.  He  an't  been  heerd  on  since 
he  sheered  off  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said  the  captain, 
as  a  quotation,  "Though  lost  to  sight  to  memory  dear, 
and  England,  Home  and  Beauty!" 

"Do  you  live  here? "  asked  Florence. 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain. 

"Oh,  Captain  Cuttle! '"  cried  Florence,  putting  her 
hands  together  and  speaking  wildly.  "Save  me!  keep 
me  here!  Let  no  one  know  where  I  am!  I'll  tell  you 
what  has  happened  by-and-by,  when  I  can.  I  have 
no  one  in  the  world  to  go  to.     Do  not  send  me  away!  " 

"Send  you  away,  my  lady  lass!  "  exclaimed  the  cap- 
tain. "  Vou,  my  Heart's  Delight!  Stay  a  bit!  WeMl 
put  up  this  here  dead-light  and  take  a  double  turn  on 
the  key! " 

With  these  words  the  captain,  using  hie  one  hand  and 
his  hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity,  got  out  tbe  ft\v\(SSK.\ 


246  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  the  door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fzist  and  locked  the 
door  itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence  she  took 
his  hand  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action, 
the  appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  it  expressed, 
the  unspeakable  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind 
she  had  too  plainly  suffered  and  was  suffering  then,  his 
knowledge  of  her  past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn 
and  unprotected  appearance,  all  so  rushed  upon  the  good 
captain  together,  tnat  he  fairly  overflowed  with  com- 
passion and  gentleness. 

' '  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  polishing  the  bridge 
of  his  nose  with  his  arm  untU  it  shone  like  burnished 
copper,  "don't  you  say  a  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  until 
such  times  as  you  finds  yourself  a  riding  smooth  and 
easy;  which  won't  be  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow.  And 
as  to  giving  of  you  up,  or  reporting  where  you  are,  yes 
verily,  and  oy  God's  help,  bo  I  won't.  Church  catechism, 
make  a  note  on!" 

This^he  captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one  breath, 
and  with  much  solemnity;  taking  off  his  hat  at  "yes 
verily,"  and  putting  it  on  again  when  he  had  quite  con- 
cluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him, 
and  to  show  him  how  she  trusted  in  him;  and  she  did  it. 
Clinging  to  this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asylum  of 
her  bleeding  heart,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  honest 
shoulder,  and  clasped  him  round  his  neck,  and  w^ould 
have  kneeled  down  to  bless  him,  but  that  he  divined  her 
purpose,  and  held  her  up  like  a  true  man. 

"Steady!"  said  the  captain.  "Steady!  You're  too 
weak  to  stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down 
here  again.  There,  therel  To  see  the  captain  lift  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  cover  her  with  his  coat,  would  have 
been  worth  a  hundred  state  sights.  "And  now,"  said 
the  captain,  "you  must  take  some  breakfast,  lady  lass, 
and  the  dog  shall  have  some  too.  And  art«r  that  yoa 
shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol  Qills's  room,  and  fall  asleep 
there,  like  a  angel." 

Captain  Cuttle  patted  Diogenes  when  he  made  allu- 
sion to  him.  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously, 
half-way.  During  the  adminiBtration  of  the  restoratives 
he  hftd  clearly  been  in  two  minds  whether  to  fly  at  the 
captain  or  to  offer  him  his  friendship;  and  he  had  ex- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  MH 

that  conflict  of  feeling  by  alternate  wagginga 
of  his  tail,  and  displays  of  his  teeth,  with  now  and  then 
a  growl  or  so.  But  bv  this  time  his  doubts  were  all  re- 
moved. It  waB  plain  that  he  considered  the  captain  one 
of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a  man  whom  it  was  an 
honor  to  a  dog  to  know. 

In  evidence  of  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended 
on  the  captain  while  he  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and 
.  showed  a  lively  interest  in  his  housekeeping.  But  it 
was  in  vain  for  the  kind  captain  to  make  such  prepara- 
tions for  Florence,  who  sorely  tried  to  do  some  honor  to 
them,  but  could  touch  nothing,  and  could  only  weep 
and  weep  again. 

"  Well,  well! "  said  the  compassionate  captain,  "  arter 
turning  in,  my  Heart's  Delight,  you'll  get  more  way 
upon  you.  Now  I'll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my  lad.'' 
To  Diogenes.  "And  you  shall  keep  guard  on  your  mis- 
tress aloft." 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eying  his 
intended  breakfast  with  a  watering  mouth  and  glisten- 
ing eyes,  instead  of  falling  to,  ravenously,  when  it  was 
Sut  before  him,  pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop- 
oor,and  barked  there  furiously :  burrowing  with  his  head  , 
at  the  bottom,  as  if  he  were  bent  on  mining  his  way  out. 

"Can  there  be  anybody  there!"  asked  Florence,  in 
alarm. 

"  No,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain.  "  Who'd 
stay  there  without  making  any  noise!  Keep  up  a  good 
heart,  pretty.     It's  only  people  going  by." 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and 
burrowed  and  burrowed  with  pertinacious  fury;  and 
whenever  he  stopped  to  listen,  appeared  to  receive  some 
new  conviction  into  his  mind,  for  he  set  to,  barking  and 
burrowing  again,  a  dozen  times.  ■  Even  when  he  was 
persuaded  to  return  to  his  breakfast,  he  came  Jogging 
back  to  it  with  a  very  doubtful  air;  and  was  off  again, 
in  another  paroxysm,  before  touching  a  morsel. 

"  If  there  should  be  some  one  listemng  and  watching," 
whispered  Florence.  "Some  one  who  saw  me  come — 
who  followed  me,  perhaps." 

"  It  an't  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it? "  said  the 
captain,  taken  with  a  bright  idea. 

"Susan?"  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  "Ah  nol 
Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a  long  time." 


248  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Not  deserted,  I  hope?"  said  the  captain.  "Don't 
say  that  that  there  ^oUQg  woman  'a  run,  my  prettyl" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Florence.  "She  is  one  of  the 
truest  hearts  in  the  world! " 

The  captain  was  greatly  relieved  bj'  this  reply,  and 
expresEed  hii^  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  harii  glazed 
hat,  and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  handker- 
chief, rolled  up  like  a  ball,  observing  several  times,  with 
infinite  complacency  and  with  a  beaming  countenance, 
that  he  know'd  it. 

"So  you're  quiet  now.  are  you,  brother?"  said  the 
captain  to  Diogenes.  "  There  wam't  nobody  there,  my 
lady  lass,  bless  you!" 

Diogenerfwas  notsa  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had 
an  attraction  for  him  at  intervals;  and  he  went  snuffing 
about  it,  and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the 
subject.  This  incident,  coupled  with  the  captain's  ob- 
servation of  Florence's  fatigue  and  faintnest^,  decided 
him  to  prepare  Sol  Gills's  chamber  as  a  place  of  retire- 
ment for  lier  immediately.  He  therefore  nastily  betook 
himself  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  made  the  best  ar- 
I'angement  of  it  that  his  imagination  and  his  means 
suggested. 

It  was  very  clean  already:  and  the  captain,  being  an 
orderly  man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  «iip- 
shape,  converted  the  bed  into  a  couch,"  by  covering  it 


all  over  with  a  clean  white  drapei^-.  By  a  similar 
contrivance,  the  captain  convertea  the  little  dressing- 
table  into  a  species  of  -altar,  on   which   be  set  forth 


two  silver  tea-spoons,  a  flower-pot,  a  telescope, 
celebrated  watch,  a  pocket-comb,  and  a  song-oook,  as 
a  small  collection  of  rarities,  that  made  a  choice 
appearance.  Having  darkened  the  window,  and 
straightened  the  pieces  of  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  cap- 
tain surveyed  these  preparations  with  great  delight, 
and  descended  to  the  lit^e  parlor  figain,  to  bring 
Florence  to  her  bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  captain  to  believe  that  it 
was  possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up-stairs.  If  he 
could  have  got  the  idea  into  his  head,  he  would  have 
considered  it  an  outrageous  breach  of  hospitality  to 
allow  her  to  do  so.  Florence  was  too  weak  to  dispute 
the  point,  and  the  captain  carried  her  up  out  of  band,  laid 
her  down,  and  covered  her  with  a  great  watch-coat. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  )J49 

"My  lady  lass!"  said  the  captain,  "you're  as  safe 
here  ae  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral, 
with  the  ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want, 
afore  all  other  things,  and  may  you  be  able  to  show 
yourself  smart  with  that  there  balsam  for  the  still 
small  woice  of  a  wownded  mind!  When  there's  any- 
thing you  want,  my  Heart's  Delight,  as  this  her© 
humhle  house  or  town  can  offer,  pass  the  word  to 
Ed'ard  Cuttle,  as  '11  stand  off  ana  on  outside  that 
door,  and  that  there  man  will  wibratg  with  joy." 
The  captain  concluded  by  kissing  the  band  that  Flor- 
ence stretched  out  to  him.  with  the  chivalry  of  any 
old  knight-errant,  and  walking  on  tip-toe  out  of  the 
room. 

Descending  to  the  little  parlor,  Captain  Cuttle,  after 
holding  a  hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  open 
the  shop-door  for  a  few  minutes,  and  satisfy  himself 
that  now,  at  all  events,  there  was  no  one  loiterihg 
about  it.  Accordingly  he  set  it  open,  and  stood  upon 
the  threshold,  keeping  a  bright  lookout,  and  sweeping 
the  whole  street  with  his  spectacles. 

"  How  de  do,  Captain  Gms?  "  said  a  voice  beside  him. 
The  captain,  lookmg  down,  fftund  that  he  had  been 
boarded  by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon. 

"How  are  you,  ray  lad?"  replied  the  captain, 

"Well,  I'm  pretty  well,  thank'ee,  Captam  Gills," said 
Mr.  Toots.  "You  know  I'm  never  quite  what  I  could 
wish  to  be,  now.  I  don't  expect  that  I  ever  shall  be 
any  more." 

Mr.  Toots  never  approached  any  nearer  than  this  to 
the  great  theme  of  his  life,  when  in  conversation  with 
Captain  Cuttle,  on  account  of  the  agreement  between 
them. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  I  could  have  tht! 
pleasure  of  a  word  with  you,  it's — it's  rather  par- 
ticular." 

"  Why,  you  see  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  leading 
the  way  into  the  parlor,  "  I  an't  what  you  may  call  ex- 
actly free  this  morning;  and  therefore  if  you  can  clap 
on  a  bit,  I  should  take  it  kindly." 

"Certainly  Captain  Qills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  who 
seldom  had  any  notion  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  To 
clap  on,  is  exactly  what  I  could  wish  to  do.  Natu- 
rally." 


250  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  If  80  be,  my  lad."  returned  the  captain.     "  Do  it! " 

The  captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his 
tremendous  secret — by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being 
at  that  moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  ana 
unconscious  Toots  sat  opposite  to  him — that  a  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impos- 
sible, while  slow^Iy  drying  the  same,  glazed  hat  in  hand, 
to  keep  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Toots's  face.  Mr.  Toots,  who 
himself  appeared  to  have  some  secret  reeisons  for  be- 
ing in  a  nervous  state,  was  so  unspeakably  discon- 
certed by  the  captain's  steire,  that  after  looking  at  him 
vacantly  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  shifting  uneasily 
on  his  chair,  he  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don't  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  particular  in  me,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.     "  No." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  chuckle. 
"  I  KNOW  I'm  wasting  away.  You  needn't  at  all  mind 
alluding  to  that.  I — I  should  like  it.  Burgess  and  Co 
have  fJtered  my  measure,  I'm  in  that  state  of  thin- 
ness. It's  a  gratification  to  me.  I— I'm  glad  of  it 
I — I'd  a  great  deal  rather  go  into  a  decline,  if  I  could. 
I'm  a  mere  brute  you  know,  grazing  upon  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  Captain  Gills." 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more  the 
captain  was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,  and  stared  at 
him.  What  with  this  cause  of  uneasiness  and  his  de- 
sire to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Toots,  the  captain  was  in  such  a 
scared  and  strange  condition,  indeed,  that  if  he  had 
been  in  c^versation  with  a  ghost  he  could  hardly  have 
evinced  greater  discomposure. 

"But  I  jvas  going  to  say.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Ur. 
Toots,  "  Happening  to  be  this  way  earlv  this  mominff 
— to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  coming  to  Itreakfast  witE 
you.  As  to  sleep,  you  know  I  never  sleep  now.  I  might 
be  a  Watchman,  except  that  I  don't  get  any  pay,  and 
he's  got  nothii^  on  his  mind." 

"  Carry  on,  my  lad!"  said  the  captain,  in  an  admoni- 
tory voice. 

"Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "Per- 
fectly true!  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morn- 
ing (an  hour  or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door  shut — " 

'•  What!  were  you  waiting  there,  opother  ?"  demanded 
the  captain. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  261 

"  Not  at  all,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr,  Toots,  "  I 
didn't  stop  a  moment.  I  thought  you  were  out.  But 
the  person  said — by  the  by,  you  don't  keep  a  dog,  do 
you.  Captain  Gills?" 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that's  exactly  what  I 
said.  I  knew  you  didn't.  There  is  a  dog.  Captain  QilU, 
connected  with — but  excuse  me.  That's  forbidden 
ground." 

The  captain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  he  seemed  to 
swell  to  twice  his  natural  size;  and  again  the  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  the  captain's  forehead  when  he 
thought  of  Diogenes  taking  it  into  his  head  to  come 
down  and  make  a  third  in  the  parlor. 

"The  person  said,"  continued  Mr.  Toots,  "that  he 
had  heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  shop:  which  I  knew 
couldn't  be,  and  I  told  him  so.  But  he  was  as  positive 
as  if  he  had  seen  the  dog." 

"  What  person,  my  lad?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why,  you  see  there  it  is,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness  of 
bis  manner.  "  It's  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have 
taken  place,  or  what  may  not  have  taken  place.  In- 
deed, I  don't  know.  I  get  mixed  up  with  all  sorts  of 
things  that  I  don't  quite  understand,  and  I  think  there's 

something    rather    weak    in    my in  my  head,  in 

short."  ' 

The  captain  nodded  his  own,  as  a  mark  of  assent. 

"  But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away," 
continued  Mr.  Toots,  "that  you  knew  what,jinder  ex- 
isting circumstances,  might  occur — he  said  '  imght '  very 
strongly — and  that  if  you  were  requested  to  prepare 
yourself,  you  would,  no  doubt,  come  prepared." 

"  Person,  my  lad! "  the  captain  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  person,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Gills," 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  But  com- 
ing to  the  door,  I  found  him  waiting  there;  and  he  said 
was  I  coming  back  ftgain,  and  I  said  yes;  and  he  said 
did  I  know  you,  and  I  said,  yes,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance—you  had  given  me  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance,  after  some  persuasion;  and  he  said, 
if  that  was  the  case,  would  I  say  to  you  w^hat  1  have 
said,  about  existing  circumstances  and  coming  pre- 
pared, and  as  soon  as  ever  I  saw  you,  would  I  a*.VL.  'j*'m. 


asa  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  step  round  the  comer,  if  it  was  only  for  one  minute, 
on  most  important  buBine^s,  to  Mr.  Brogley's  the  bro- 
ker's. Now,  I  tell  you  what,  Captain  Gills — whatever 
it  is,  I  am  convinced  it's  very  important;  and  if  you 
like  to  step  round  now,  I'll  wait  nere  "till  you  come 
back." 

The  captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromis- 
ing Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horror 
of  leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a 
chance  of  finding  out  the  secret,  was  a  spectacle  of 
mental  disturbance  that  even  Mr.  Toots  oould  not  be 
blind  to.  But  that  young  gentleman,  considering  his 
nautical  friend  as  merely  in  a  state  of  preparation  f«r 
the  interview  he  was  ^omg  to  have,  was  quite  satisfied, 
and  did  not  review  his  own  discreet  conduct  without 
chuckles. 

At  length  the  captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  o£  two 
evils,  to  run  round  to  Brogley's  the  broker's:  previously 
locking  the  door  tliat  communicated  with  the  upper  part 
of  the  nouse,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  "  If  so 
be,"  said  the  captain  to  Mr,  Toots,  with  not  a  little 
shame  and  hesitation,  "  as  you'll  excuse  my  doin^  of  it, 
brother." 

"Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toot«,  "  whatever  you 
do,  is  satisfactory  to  me." 

The  captain  thanked  him  heartily,  and  promising  lo 
come  back  in  less  than  five  minutes,  went  out  in  quest 
of  the  person  who  had  intrusted  Mr.  Toots  with  tliis 
mysterious  message.  Poor  Mr.  Toots,  left  to  himself, 
lay  down  upon  the  sofa,  little  thinking  who  had  reclined 
there  lastlfand,  gazing  up  at  the  skylight  and  resigning 
himself  to  visions  of  Miss  Dombey,  lost  all  heed  of  time 
and  place, 

It  was  as  well  that  he  did  so;  for  although  the  captain 
was  not  gone  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he 
had  proposed.  When  he  came  back,  he  was  very  pale 
indeed,  and  greatly  agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  shedding  tears.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  speech,  until  he  had  been  to  the  cupboard 
and  taken  a  dram  of  rum  from  the  case-bottle,  when  he 
fetched  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  with  his 
hand  before  liis  face. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Toots,  kindly,  "I  hope  and 
trust  there's  nothing  wrong?" 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  263 

"Thank'ee,  my  lad,  not  a  bit,"  said  the  captain. 
■■Quite  contrairy." 

"  You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  "Cap- 
tain GillB,"  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

"Why,  my  lad,  I  am  took  aback,"  the  captain  ad- 
mitted.    "I  am." 

■'  Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do.  Captain  Gills?  "  in- 
quired Mr.  Toots,     "  If  there  is,  make  use  of  me." 

The  captain  removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked  - 
at  him  with  a  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  ten- 
derness, and  took  him  by  the  hand  and  shook  it  hard. 

'"No  thank'ee,"  said  the  captain.  "Nothing.  Only 
I'll  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you  11  part  company  for  the 
present.  I  believe,  brother,"  wringing  his  hand  again, 
■'  that,  after  Wal'r,  and  on  a  different  model,  you're  as 
good  a  lad  as  ever  stepped." 

■'  Upon  ray  word  ana  honor.  Captain  Gills,"  returned 
Mr.  Toots,  giving  the  captain's  hand  a  preliminary  slap 
before  shaking  it  again,  "  it's  delightful  to  me  to  pos- 
sess your  good  opinion.     Thank'ee. 

"And  hear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  captain, 
patting  him  on  the  back.  "  What!  There's  more  than 
one  sweet  creetur  in  the  world!" 

"  Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely. 
"Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feelings 
towards  Miss  Domliey  is  of  that  unspeakable  descrip- 
tion, that  my  heart  is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives  in  it 
alone.  I'm  getting  more  used  up  every  day,  and  I'm 
proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see  my  legs  when  I  take 
my  boots  off,  you'd  form  some  idea  of  what  unrequited 
affection  is.  I  have  been  prescribed  bark,  but  I  don't 
take  it,  for  I  don't  wish  to  have  any  tone  whatever 
given  to  my  constitution.  I'd  rather  not.  This,  how- 
ever, is  forbidden  ground.     Captain  Gills,  good  by  I " 

Captain  Cuttle,  cordiallyreciprocating  the  warmth  of 
Mr.  Toots's  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  the  same  remarkable  expression 
of  pity  and  tenderness  as  he  had  regarded  him  with 
before,  went  up  to  see  if  Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  captain's  face  as 
he  went  up-stairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  he  polished  the  brjdge  of  his  nose  with 
his  sleeve  as  he  had  done  already  that  morning.  But  his 
face  waa  absolutely  changed.    Now,  he  miglA  Vta.■se^ 


254  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

been  thought  supremely  happy;  now,  he  might  have 
been  thou^t  sad;  but  the  kind  of  gravity  that  sat  upon 
his  features  was  quite  new  to  them,  and  was  as  great 
an  improvement  to  them  as  if  they  had  undergone  aome 
sublimating  process. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door, 
twice  or  thrice;  but,  receiving  no  answer,  ventured  first 
to  peep  in,  and  then  to  enter:  emboldened  to  take  the 
•  latter  step,  perhaps,  by  the  familiar'  recognition  of 
Diogenes,  who,  stretched  upon  the  ground  by  the  side 
of  her  couch,  wa^ed  his  tail  and  winked  his  eyes  at 
the  captain,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of  getting  up. 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep; 
and  Captain  Cuttle,  with  a  perfect  awe  of  her  youth 
and  beauty,  and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head,  and  ad- 
justed the  coat  that  covered  her,  where  it  had  fallen  off, 
and  darkened  the  window  a  little  more  that  she  might 
sleep  on,  and  crept  out  again  and  took  his  post  of  watch 
upon  the  stairs.  All  this,  with  a  touch  and  tread  ae 
light  as  Florence's  own. 

Xong  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not 
easy  of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence 
of  the  Almighty's  goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that 
are  formed  for  Bensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch, 
and  made  to  minister  to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough, 
hard  Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the  heart  teaches,  guides 
and  softens  in  a  moment! 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her  home- 
lessness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched 
upon  the  stairs.  A  louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual, 
brought  him  sometimes  to  her  door;  but  by  degrees  she 
slept  more  peacefully,  and  the  c^tain's  watch  was  un- 
disturbed. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  255 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE  HmSHIPHAN  HAKES  A  DISCOVERT. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  was  in 
its  prime,  the  day  was  in  itB  wane,  and  still,  unea:Sy  in 
mind  and  body,  she  slept  on;  unconsciousof  her  strange 
bed,  of  the  noise  and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and  of  the 
light  that  shone  outside  the  shaded  window.  Perfect 
unconsciousness  of  what  had  happened  in  the  home  that 
existed  no  more,  even,  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaustion 
could  not  produce.  Some  undefined  and  mournful  rec- 
ollection of  it,  dozing  uneasily  but  never  sleeping,  per- 
vaded all  her  rest.  A  dull  sorrow,  like  a  naif-lulled 
sense  of  pain,  was  always  present  to  her:  and  her  pale 
cheek  was  oftener  wet  with  tears  than  the  honest  cap- 
tain, softly  putting  in  his  head  from  time  to  time  at  the 
half-closed  door,  could  have  desired  to  see  it. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing 
out  of  a  red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays  opposite  loop- 
holes and  pieces  of  fret-work  in  the  spires  of  citv 
churches,  as  if  with  golden  arrows  that  struck  througn 
and  through  them— and  far  away  athwart  the  river  and 
its  flat  banks,  it  was  gleaming  lilce  a  path  of  fire — and 
out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships — and,  looked 
towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon  hill-tops  in  the 
countrv,  it  was  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a  flush  and 
glow  that  seemed  to  mingle  earth  and  sky  together  in 
one  glorious  suffusion^when  Florence,  opening  her 
heavy  eyes,  lay  at  first,  looking  without  interest  or  rec- 
■ognition  at  the  unfamiliar  walls  around  her,  and  listen- 
ing in  the  same  regardless  manner  to  the  noises  in  the 
street.  But  presently  she  started  up  upon  her  couch, 
gazed  round  with  a  surprised  and  vacant  look,  and 
recollected  all. 

"  My  pretty,"  said  the  captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
"what  cheer!" 

"Dear  friend,"  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  "is 
it  you?  " 

The  captain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  was 
so  pleased  by  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face  when 
she  saw  him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply, 
in  speechless  gratification. 


aSG  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  What  cheer,  bright  di'mond! "  said  the  captain. 

"  I  have  surely  slept  veiy  long,"  returned  Florence. 
"  When  did  I  come  here?    Yesterday?  " 

"  This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,"  rephed  the 
captain. 

"Has  there  been  no  night?  Is  it  still  day?"  asked 
Florence. 

"  Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,"  said  the 
captain,  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window, 
"  See! " 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  captain's  arm,  so 
sorrowful  and  timid,  and  the  captain  with  his  rough 
face  and  burly  figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  bUxA 
in  the  rosy  light  of  the  bright  evening  sky  without  say- 
ing a  word.  However  strange  the  form  of  speech  into 
which  he  might  have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  had 
had  to  give  it  utterance,  the  captain  felt,  as  sensiblv  as 
the  most  eloquent  of  men  could  have  done,  that  there 
was  something  in  the  tranquil  time  and  in  its  softened 
beauty  that  would  make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence 
overflow;  and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should 
liave  their  way.  9o  not  a  word  spake  Captain  Cuttle. 
But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer,  and  when  he 
felt  the  lonely  head  come  nearer  to  it,  and  lay  itself 
against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve,  he  pressed  it 
gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it-  and 
was  understood. 

"  Better  now,  my  pretty! "  said  the  captain.  "  Cheerily, 
cheerily;  I'll  go  down  below,  and  get  some  dinner  ready. 
Will  you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  arterwards, 
pretty,  or  shall  Ed'ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch  you?  " 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to 
walk  down-stairs,  the  captain,  though  evidently  doubt- 
ful of  his  own  hospitality  in  permitting  it,  left  her  to  do 
so,  and  immediately  set  about  roasting  a  fowl  at  the  fire 
in  the  little  parlor.  To  achieve  his  cookery  with  the 
greater  skill,  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  tucked  up  his  wrist- 
bands, and  put  on  his  glazed  hat,  without  which  assist- 
ant he  never  applied  himself  to  any  nice  or  difficult 
undertaking. 

After  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in 
the  fresh  water  which  the  captain's  care  had  provided 
for  her  while  she  slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little 
mirror  to  bind  up  her  disordered  hair.    Then  she  knew 

„,.     Coofjic 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  257 

— in  a  moment,  for  she  shunned  it  instantly — that  on 
her  breast  there  was  the  darkening  mark  of  an  angry 
hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight;  she  was 
ashamed  and  afraid  of  it;  but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger 
against  him.  Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him 
everything;  hardly  thought  that  she  had  need  to  for- 

five  him,  or  that  she  did;  but  she  fled  from  the  idea  of 
ira  as  she  had  fled  from  the  reality,  and  he  was  utterly 
gone  and  lost.     There  was  no  such  Being  in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Florence— poor,  inex- 
perienced girl  I — could  not  yet  consider.  She  had  indis- 
tinct dreams  of  finding,  a  long  way  off.  some  little  sisters 
to  instruct,  who  would  be  gentle  with  her,  and  to  whom, 
under  some  feigned  name,  she  might  attach  herself, 
and  who  would  grow  up  in  their  happy  home,  and 
marry,  and  be  good  to  their  old  governess,  and  perhaps 
intrust  her,  in  time,  with  the  education  of  their  own 
daughters.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and  sorrow- 
ful it  would  be  thus  to  become  a  grey-haired  woman, 
carrying  her  Secret  to  the  grave,  when  Florence  Dom- 
bey  was  forffotten.  But  it  was  all  dim  and  clouded  to 
her  now.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  no  Father  upon 
earth,  and  she  saia  bo,  many  times,  with  her  suppliant 
head  hidden  from  all  but  her  Father  who  was  in 
Heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a  few 
guineas.  With  a  part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
buy  some  clothes,  lor  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore. 
She  was  too  desolate  to  think  how  soon  her  money 
would  be  gone — too  much  a  child  in  worldly  matters  to 
be  greatly  troubled  on  that  score  yet,  even  if  her  other 
trouble  had  been  less.  She  tried  to  calm  her  thoughts 
and  stay  her  tears;  to  quiet  the  hurry  in  her  throbbing 
head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe  that  what  had  hap- 
pened were  Tiut  the  events  of  a  few  hours  ago,  instead 
of  weeks  or  months,  as  they  appeared;  and  went  down 
to  her  kind  protector. 

The  captam  had  spread  the  cloth  with  great  care,  and 
was  making  some  egg-sauce  in  a  little  saucepan:  bast- 
ing the  fowl  from  time  to  time  during  the  process  with 
a  strong  interest,  as  it  turned  and  browned  on  a  string 
before  the  fire.  Having  propped  Florence  up  with, 
cushions  on  the  sofa,  which  was  already  ■wV^^eft.  \\A« 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  warm  corner  for  her  greater  comfort,  the  captain  pur- 
Bued  bis  cooking  with  extraordinary  skill,  making  hot 
gravy  in  a  second  little  saucepan,  boiling  a  handnil  of 
potatoes  in  a  third,  never  forgetting  the  egg-sauce  in 
the  first,  and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting  and 
stirring  with  the  most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute. 
Besides  these  cares,  the  captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on 
a  diminutive  frying-pan,  in  which  some  sausages  were 
hissing  and  bubbling  in  a  nlost  musical  manner;  and 
there  was  never  such  a  radiant  cook  as  the  captain 
looked  in  the  height  and  heat  of  these  functions:  it 
being  impossible  to  say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed 
hat  shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready.  Captain  Cuttle 
dished  and  served  it  up,  with  no  less  dexterity  than  he 
had  cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  oy  taking 
off  his  glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That  done, 
he  wheeled  the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the  sofa, 
said  grace,  unscrewed  his  hook,  screwed  his  fork  into 
its  place,  and  did  the  honors  of  the  table. 

"My  ladv  lass,"  said  the  captain,  "  cheer  up,  and  try  to 
eat  a  deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary!  Liver  wing  it  is, 
Sarse  it  is.  Sassage  it  is.  And  potato!"  all  which  the 
captain  ranged  symmetrically  on  a  plate,  and,  pouring 
hot  gravy  on  the  whole  with  the  useful  spoon,  set  before 
his  cherished  guest. 

"  The  whole  row  o'  dead  lights  is  up,  for'ard,  lady 
lass,"  observed  the  captain,  encouragingly,  "and  every- 
think  is  made  snug.  Try  and  pick  a  bit,  my  pretty.  If 
Wal'r  was  here — ' 

"Ah!  If  I  had  him  for  my  brother  now!"  cried  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Don't!  don't  take  on.  my  pretty! "  said  the  captain, 
"  awast  to  obleege  me!  He  was  your  nat'ral  born  niend 
like,  wam't  he  Pet?" 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with;  She  only 
said,  "Oh,  dear,  dear  Paul!  obWalterl" 

"The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,"  murmured  the 
captain,  looking  at  her  drooping  face,  "  was  as  high  es- 
teemed hj  Wal'r  as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart  which 
never  rejices!  I  see  him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he  was 
rated  on  them  Dombey  books,  a  speaking  of  her  with 
his  face  a  glistening  with  doo^eastways  with  his  mod- 
est  sentiments — like  a  new  blowed  rose,  at   dinner. 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  359 

"Well,  well!  If  our  poor  Wal'r  was  here,  my  lady  lass — 
or  if  he  could  be — for  he's  drownded,  an't  he?" 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  yes;  drownded,"  said  the  captain,  soothingly; 
"  as  I  was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he'd  beg  and  pray 
of  you,  my  precious,  to  pick  a  leetle  bit,  with  a  looKout 
for  your  own  sweet  heafth.  Whereby,  hold  your  own, 
my  lady  lass,  as  if  it  was  for  Wal'r'B-  sake,  and  lay  your 
pretty  head  to  the  wind." 

Florence  essayed  to  eat  a  morsel,  for  the  captain's 
pleasure.     The  captain,  meanwhile,  who  seemed  to  have 

?uite  forgotten  his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
brk,  ana  drew  his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

"  Warr  was  a  trim  lad,  warn't  he  precious?  "  said  the 
captain,  after  sitting  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  his 
chm,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "and  a  brave  lad, 
and  a  good  lad?" 

Florence  tearfully  assented, 

"And  he's  drownded,  Beauty,  an't  he?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  soothing  voice. 

Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

"  He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass,"  pursued  the 
captain,  "but  you  was  like  two  children  together,  at 
first,  warn't  you?" 

Florence  answered  "Yes." 

"And  Wal'r's  drownded,"  said  the  captain.  "An't 
he?" 

The  repetition  of  this  inquiry  was  a  curious  source  of 
consolation,  but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
for  he  came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain 
to  push  from  her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  He  back 
on  ner  sofa,  gave  him  her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had 
disappointed  him,  though  truly  wishing  to  have  pleased 
him  after  all  his  trouble,  but  he  held  it  in  his  own  (which 
shook  as  he  held  it),  and,  appearing  to  have  quite  for- 
gotten all  about  the  dinner  and  her  want  of  appetite, 
went  on  growling  at  intervals,  in  a  ruminating  tone  of 
sympathy,  "Poor  Wal'r.  Ay,  ay!  Drownded.  An't 
he?  And  always  waited  for  her  answer,  in  which  the 
great  point  of  tnese  singular  reflections  appeared  to 
consist. 

The  fowl  and  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy  and 
the  egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  captain  remembered 
that  they  were  on  the  board,  and  fell  to  with  tfeei  «»kw>V 


•iW  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ance  of  Diogenes,  whose  united  efforts  quickly  de- 
spatched the  banquet.  The  captain's  delight  and 
wonder  at  the  quiet  housewifery  of  Florence  in  assisting 
to  clear  the  table,  arrange  the  parlor,  and  svreep  up  the 
hearth — only  to  be  equalled  by  the  fervency  of  ois  pro- 
test when  she  began  to  assist  him— were  gradually 
raised  to  that  degree,  that  at  last  he  could  not  choose 
but  do  nothing  hunself,  and  stand  looking  at  her  as  if 
she  were  some  Fairy,  daintily  performing  these  ofiBces 
for  him;  the  red  rim  on  his  forehead  glowing  agftin,  in 
his  unspeakable  admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  from  the 
mantel-shelf,  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him 
to  smoke  it,  tlie  good  captain  was  so  bewildered  by  her 
attention  that  he  held  it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a  pipe 
in  all  his  life.  Likewise,  when  Florence,  looking  in  the 
little  cupboard,  took  out  the  case-bottle  and  mixed  a 
perfect  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasked,  and  set  it  at  his 
elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he  felt  himself  so 
graced  and  honored.  When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an 
absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for 
him — the  captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  pre- 
vent her — and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old  sofa, 
looked  at  him  with  a  smile  so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a 
smile  that  showed  him  so  plainly  how  her  forlom  heart 
turned  to  him,  as  her  face  did,  through  grief,  that  the 
smoke  of  the  pipe  got  into  the  captain's  throat  and  made 
him  cough,  and  got  iuto  the  captain's  eyes,  and  made 
them  blink  and  water. 

Tlie  manner  in  which  the  captain  tried  to  make  be- 
lieve that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the 


tipe  itself,  and  the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the 
owl  for  it,  and  not  finding  it  there,  pretended  to  blow 
it  out  of  the  stem,  was  wonderfully  pleasant.     The  pipe 


I  getting  into  better  condition,  ne  fell  into  that  stat# 
of  repose  becominga  good  smoker;  but  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Florence,  and,  with  a  beamnig  placidity  not  to 
be  described,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  dis- 
charge a  little  cloud  from  his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it  forth. 
:is  if  it  were  a  scroll  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  bearing 
the  legend  "  Poor  Wal'r,  ay,  ay,  Drownded,  ain't  he? 
after  which  he  would  resume  his  smoking  with  infinite 
gentleness. 
Unlike    as  they  were   externally — and    there  could 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  261 

scarcely  be  a  Inore  decided  contrast  than  between  Flor- 
ence in  her  delicate  youth  and  beauty,  and  Captain 
Cuttle  with  his  knobby  face,  his  great  broad  weather- 
beaten  person,  and  his  gruff  voice — in  simple  innocence 
of  the  world's  ways  and  the  world's  perplexities  and 
dangers,  they  were  nearly  on  a  level.  No  child  could 
have  surpassed  Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience  of  every- 
thing but  wind  and  weather;  in  simplicity,  credulity, 
and  generous  trustfulness.  Faith,  hope,  and  charity, 
shared  his  whole  nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of 
romance,  perfectly  unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal, 
and  subject  to  no  considerations  of  worldly  prudence 
or  practicability,  was  the  only  partner  they  had  in  his 
character.  As  the  captain  sat,  and  smoked,  and  looked 
at  Florence,  God  knows  what  impossible  pictures,  in 
which  she  was  the  principal  figure,  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind.  Equally  vague  and  uncertain, 
though  not  so  sanguine,  were  her  own  thoughts  of  the 
life  before  her;  and  even  as  her  tears  made  prismatic 
colors  iu  the  light  she  gazed  at,  so,  through  her  new 
and  heavy  grief,  she  already  saw  a  rainbow  faintly 
shining  in  the  far-off  sky.  A  wandering  princess  and  a 
good  monster  in  a  story-book  might  nave  sat  by  the 
nr^ide,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cuttle  and  poor  Florence 
thought — and  not  have  looked  very  much  unlike  them. 

The  captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea 
of  any  difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  re- 
sponsibility thereby  incurred.  Having  put  up  the  shut- 
ters and  locked  the  door,  ho  was  quite  satisfied  on  this 
head.  If  she  had  been  a  Ward  in  Chancery,  it  would 
have  made  no  difference  at  all  to  Captain  Cuttle.  He 
was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be  troubled  by  any 
such  considerations. 

So  the  captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner. 
When  the  pipe  was  out,  they  liad  some  tea;  and  then 
Florence  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  some  neighbor- 
ing shop,  where  she  could  buy  the  few  necessaries  she 
immediately  wanted.  It  being  quite  dark,  the  captain 
consented;  peeping  carefully  out  first,  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  do  m  his  time  of  hiding  from  Mrs.  MacStinger; 
and  arming  himself  with  his  large  stick,  in  case  of  an 
appeal  to  arms  being  rendered  necessary  by  any  unfore- 
seen circumstance. 


2ti2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had,  Id  givfua;  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  escdrtinc  her  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  keeping  a  bright  lookout  all  the  time,  and  at- 
tracting the  attention  of  every  one  who  passed  th«in, 
by  his  great  vigilance  and  numerous  precautions,  was 
extreme.  Arrived  at  the  shop,  the  CEcptain  felt  it  a 
point  of  delicacy  to  retire  during  the  making  of  the 
purchases,  as  they  were  to  consist  of  wearing  apparel; 
but  he  previously  deposited  his  tin  canister  on  the 
counter,  and  informing  the  young  lady  of  the  estabhsh- 
ment  that  it  contained  fourteen  pound  two,  requested 
her,  in  case  that  amount  of  property  should  not  be 
sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of  nis  niece's  little 
outfit — at  the  word  "  niece,"  he  bestowed  a  most  sig^iiji- 
cant  look  on  Florence,  accompanied  with  pantomime, 
expressive  of  sagacity  and  mystery — to  have  the  good- 
ness to  "  sing  out,"  and  he  would  make  up  the  cuffer- 
ence  from  his  pocket.  Casually  consulting  his  big 
watch,  as  a  deep  means  of  dazzling  the  establishment, 
and  impressing  it  with  a  sense  of  property,  the  captain 
then  kissed  his  book  to  his  niece,  and  retired  outside 
tlie  window,  where  it  was  a  choice  sight  to  see  his  great 
facelooking  in  from  time  to  time,  among  the  silks  and 
ribbons,  witli  an  obvious  misgiving  that  Florence  had 
been  spirited  away  by  a  back  Boor, 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Florence,  whenshec^ame 
out  with  a  peu*cel,  the  size  of  which  greatly  disappointed 
the  captain,  who  had  expected  to  see  a  porter  followine 
with  a  bale  of  goods,  "  I  don't  want  this  money,  indeed 
I  have  not  spent  any  of  it.     I  have  money  of  my  own." 

'■  My  lady  lass,"  returned  the  baflfled  captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  "take  care  on  it 
for  me,  will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I  ask  ye  for 
it?  " 

"  May  I  put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  keep  it  there? " 

The  captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal, 
but  he  answered,  "  Ay.ay,  put  it  anywheres,  my  lady  lass, 
so  long  as  you  know  wliere  to  find  it  again.  It  an*t  o'  no 
use  to  vie,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  wonder  I  haven't 
chucked  it  away  afore  now." 

The  captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment, 
but  he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence's  arm,  and 
they  returned  with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  263 

come;  the  captain  opening  the  door  of  the  little  Mid- 
shipman's berth,  and  diving  in  with  a  suddenness  which 
bis  great  practice  only  could  have  taueht  him.  During 
Florence's  slumber  in  the  morning  he  nad  engaged  the 
daughter  of  an  elderly  ladv,  who  usually  sat  under  a 
blue  tuubrella  in  Leadenhall-market,  selling  poultry,  to 
come  and  put  her  room  in  order,  and  render  her  any 
little  services  she  required ;  and  this  damsel  now  appear- 
ing, Florence  found  everything  about  her  as  convenient 
and  orderly,  if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream 
she  had  once  called  Home. 

When  they  were  alone  again  the  cajptain  insisted  on 
her  eating  a  slice  of  dry  toast  and  drinking  a  glass  of 
spiced  negus  (wliich  he  made  to  perfection);  and,  en- 
couraging her  with  every  kind  wprd  and  inconsequen- 
tial quotation  he  could  possibly  think  of,  led  her  up- 
stairs to  her  bedroom.  But  he  too  had  something  on  his 
mind,  and  was  not  easy  in  his  manner. 

"Good  night,  dear  heart,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her 
at  her  chamber-door. 

Floronce  raised  her  lips  to  his  face  and  kissed  him. 

At  any  other  time  the  captain  would  hare  been  over- 
balanced by  such  a  token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude ; 
but  now,  although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  ne  looked 
in  her  face  with  even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  tes- 
tified before,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  leave  her. 

"Poor  Wal'r! "  said  thecaptain. 

"  Poor,  poor  Walter! "  sighed  Florence. 

"Drownded,  an't  he?"  said  the  captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Good  night,  my  lady  lass!"  said  Captain  Cuttle, 
putting  out  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend! " 

But  the  captain  lingered  still. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle?  "  said 
Florence,  easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind 
"  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me? " 

"  To  tell  you,  lady  lassl "  replied  the  captain,  meeting 
her  eyes  in  confusion.  "  No,  no;  what  should  I  have  to 
tell  Tou,  prettyl  You  don't  expect  as  I've  got  anything 
good  to  tell  you  sure? " 

"  Nol "  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated 
"  No," — still  lingering  and  still  showing  et»ba."n»asceifo'oX> 


^.i4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Poor  Warr!"8aid  the  captain.  "My  Wal'r,  as  I 
used  to  call  you!  Old  Sol  Gins'  nevy!  Welcome  to  all 
as  knowed  you,  as  the  flowers  in  May!  Where  are  you 
got  to,  hrave  boy!    Drownded,  an't  he?" 

Concluding  his  a^strophe  with  this  abrupt  appeal  to 
Florence,  the  captain  bade  her  good  night  ana  descended 
t!ie  stairs,  while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding 
the  caudle  out  to  light  him  down.  He  was  lost  in  tbt; 
obscurity,  and,  judging  from  the  sound  of  his  receding 
footsteps,  was  in  the  act  of  turning  into  the  little  parK»r. 
when  his  head  and  shoulders  unexpectedly  emerged 
again,  as  from  the  deep,  apparently  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  repeat,  "Drownded,  an't  he,  pretty?  '  For 
when  he  had  said  that  in  a  tone  of  tender  condolence, 
he  disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittinglv. 
though  naturally,  have  awakened  these  associations  in 
the  mind  of  her  protector,  by  taking  refuge  there;  and 
sitting  down  before  the  little  table  where  the  captain 
hiid  arrantjed  the  telescope  and  song-book,  and  those 
other  rarities,  thought  of  Walter,  and  of  all  that  was 
connected  with  him  in  the  past,  until  she  could  have 
almost  wished  to  He  down  on  her  bed  and  fade  away. 
But  in  her  lonely  yearning  to  the  dead  whom  she  had 
loved,  no  thought  of  home — no  possibility  of  going  back 
— no  presentation  of  it  as  yet  existing,  or  as  shelteriag 
her  father — once  entered  her  thoughts.  She  had  seen 
the  murder  done.  In  the  last  lingering  natural  aspect 
in  which  she  had  cherished  him  through  so  much,  he 
had  been  torn  out  of  her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain.  The 
thought  of  it  was  so  appalling  to  her,  that  she  covered 
her  eyes,  and  shrunk  trembling  from  the  least  remem- 
brance of  the  deed,  or  of  the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If 
her  fond  heart  could  have  held  his  image  after  that,  it 
must  have  broken;  but  it  could  not;  and  the  void  was  ■ 
filled  with  a  wild  dread,  that  fled  from  all  confronting 
with  its  shattered  fragments — with  such  a  dread  as 
could  have  risen  out  of  nothing  but  the  depths  of  such  a 
love,  so  wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass;  for  the  sight  of  the 
darkening  mark  upon  her  bosom  made  her  afraid  of 
herself,  as  if  she  bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She 
covered  it  up,  with  a  hasty,  faltering  hand,  and  in  the 
dark;  and  laid  her  weary  head  down,  weeping. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON.  205 

The  captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  lon^  time.  He 
walked  to  and  £ro  in  the  shop,  and  in  the  httle  parlor,  , 
for  a  full  hour,  and,  appearing  to  have  composed  him- 
self by  that  exercise,  sat  down  with  a  CTave  and  thought- 
ful face,  and  read  out  of  a  Prayer-lx)ok  the  forms  of 
praj-er  appointed  to  be  used  at  sea.  These  were  not 
easily  disposed  of;  the  good  captain  being  a  mighty 
slow,  gruff  reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at  a  hard 
w^ord  to  give  himself  such  encouragement  as  "  Now,  my 
ladl  With  a  will! "  or,  ■'  Steiwly,  Ed'ard  Cuttle.steady! " 
which  bad  a  great  effect  in  helping  him  out  of  any  dif- 
ficulty. Moreover,  his  spectacles  greatly  interfered 
with  his  powers  of  vision.  But  notwithstanding  these 
drawbacks,  the  captain,  being  heartily  in  earnest,  read 
the  service  to  the  very  last  Hue,  and  with  genuine  feel- 
ing too;  and  approving  of  it  very  much  when  he  had 
done,  turned  in  under  the  counter  (but  not  before  he  had 
been  up-stairs,  aud  listened  at  Florence's  door),  with  a 
serene  breast,  and  a  most  benevolent  visage. 

The  captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  night,  to  assure  himself  that  his  charge  was  resting 

?;uietly ;  and  once,at  daybreak  found  that  she  was  awake: 
or  she  called  to  know  if  it  were  he,  on  hearing  foot- 
steps near  her  door, 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"'  replied  the  captain,  in  a  growl- 
ing whisper.     "Are  you  aH  right,  di'mond?" 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  "Yes." 

The  captain  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity 
of  applying  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  and  calling  through 
it,  like  a  hoarse  breeze,  "  Poor  Wal'r!  Drownded,  ain't 
he?  "  After  which  he  withdrew,  and  turning  in  again, 
slept  till  seven  o'clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed 
manner  all  that  day;  though  Florence,  being  busy  with 
lier  needle  in  the  little  parlor,  was  more  calm  and  tran- 
quil than  she  had  been  on  the  day  preceding.  Almost 
always  when  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  she  ob- 
served the  captain  looking  at  her.  and  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  chin;  and  he  so  often  hitched  his  arm-chair 
close  to  her,as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  very 
confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as  not  being 
able  to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  day  he  cruised  completely  round  the  parlor 
in  that  frail  bark,  and  more  than  unce  vjetA  a^wt^ 


2C6  ,  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

against  the  wainscot  or  the  closet  door,  in  a  Yerydis- 
,  tressed  condition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly 
dropping  anchor  at  last,  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began 
to  talk  at  all  connectedly.  But  when  the  liRfat  of  the 
fire  was  shining  on  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  little 
room,  and  on  the  tea-board  and  the  cups  and  saucers 
that  were  ranged  upon  the  table,  and  on  her  calm  face 
turned  towards  the  flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  teais 
that  filled  her  eyes,  the  captain  broke  a  long  silence 
thus: 

"  You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own?  " 

"No,"  replied  Florence. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  captain  reverentially:  "  it's  a  almighty 
element.  There's  wonders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty. 
Think  on  it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waves  is 
rowling.  Think  on  it  when  the  stormy  nights  is  so  pitch 
dark,"  said  tlie  captain,  solemnly  holding  up  his  hook, 
"  as  you  can't  see  your  hand  afore  you,  excepting  when 
the  wiwid  lightning  reweals  the  same;  and  when  you 
drive,  drive,  drive  through  the  storm  and  dark,  as  if  you 
was  a  driving,  head  on,  to  the  world  without  end,  ever- 
more, amen,  and  when  found  making  a  note  of.  Them's 
the  times,  my  beauty,  when  a  man  may  say  to  his  mess- 
mate (previously  a  overhauling  of  the  woUume),  '  A  stiff 
nor-wester's  blowing,  Bill;  hark,  don't  you  hear  it  roar 


now!  Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pitys  all  unhappy  folks 
ashore  now!'"  Which  quotation,  as  particularly  ap- 
plicable to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the  captain  deliv- 


ered in  a  most  impressive  manner,  concluding  with  a 
sonorous  "Standby!" 

"Were  you  ever  m  a  dreadful  storm?  "asked  Florence. 

•'Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I've  seen  my  share  of  haA 
weather,"  said  the  captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  hettd. 
"  and  I've  had  my  share  of  knocking  about;  but — but  it 
an't  of  myself  as  1  was  a  meaning  to  speak.  Our  dear 
boy,"  drawing  closer  to  her,  "Wal'r,  darling,  as  was 
drownded." 

The  captain  spoke  in  such  a  trembling  voice,  and 
looked  at  Florence  with  a  face  so  pale  and  agitated, 
that  she  clung  to  his  hand  in  affright. 

"Your  face  is  changed,"  cried  Florence.  "You  are 
altered  in  a  moment.  What  is  it?  Dear  Captain  Cuttle, 
it  turns  me  cold  to  soe  j-ou! " 

D,-:..JL,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  20? 

"  Wliat!  Lady  laes,"  returned  the  captain,  supporting 
her  with  his  hand.  "Don't  be  took  aback.  No,  no? 
AH 's  well,  all  'b  well,  my  dear.  As  I  was  a  saying — 
Warr— he  's^he  's  drownded.    Ain't  he?" 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently;  her  color  came  and 
w^ent;  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  There 's  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty," 
said  the  captain;  "and  over  many  a  brave  ship,  and 
many  and  many  a  bould  heart,  the  secret  waters  has 
closed  up,  and  never  told  no  tales.  But  there 's  escapes 
upon  the  deep,  too,  and  sometimes  one  man  out  or  a 
score, — ah!  may  be  out  of  a  hundred,  pretty, — has  been 
saved  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and  come  nome  after  being 

five  over  for  dead,  and  told  of  all  hands  lost.  I— I 
now  a  story,  Heart's  Delight,"  stammered  the  captain, 
"  o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once;  and  being  on 
this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 
maybe  you  'd  like  to  hear  me  tell  it.  Would  you, 
deary? " 

Florence,  trembling  with  an  agitation  which  she  could 
not  control  or  understand,  involuntarily  followed  his 
glance,  which  went  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  a 
lamp  was  burning.  The  instant  that  she  turned  her 
head,  the  captain  sprung  out  of  his  chair,  and  interposed 
bis  hand. 

"There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,"  said  the  captain. 
"Don't  look  there! 

"Why  not?"  asked  Florence. 

The  captain  murmured  something  about  its  being 
dull  that  way,  and*  about  the  fire  being  cheerful.  He 
drew  the  door  ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until 
now,  and  resumed  his  seat.  Florence  followed  him 
with  her  eyes,  and  looked  intently  in  his  face.  ■ 

"The  story  was  about  a  ship,  my  lady  lass,"  began 
the  captain,  "  as  sailed  out  of  the  Port  of  London,  with 
a  fair  wind  and  in  fair  weather,  bound  for — don't  be 
took  aback,  my  lady  lass,  she  was  only  out'ard  bound, 
pretty,  only  out'ard  bound!" 

The  expression  on  Florence's  face  alarmed  the  cajj- 
tain,  who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed 
scarcely  less  agitation  than  she  did. 

"Shall  I  go  on,  Beauty?"  said  the  captain. 

"Yes,  yes,  prayl"  cried  Florence. 

The  captain  made  a  gulp  as  if  to  get  dovju  ?>oittfe'OcivBijfe 


acs  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  proceeded: 
"That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul 
weather,  out  at  sea,  as  don't  hlow  once  in  twenty  year, 
my  darling.  There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up 
forests  and  blowed  down  towns,  and  there  was  gales  at 
sea  in  them  latitudes,  as  not  the  stoutest  wesse!  ever 
launched  could  live  in.  Day  arter  day  that  there  un- 
fort'nate ship  hehaved  noble,  I'm  told,  and  did  her  dutv 
brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a'most  her  bulwarks 
was  stove  lu,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away,  her 
best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to  the  mercy  of 
the  storm  as  had  no  mercy  but  blowed  harder  and  hard- 
er yet,  while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and  beat  her 
in,  and  every  time  they  come  a  thundering  at  her,  broke 
her  like  a  shell.  Every  black  spot  in  every  mountain  of 
water  that  rolled  away  was  a  ait  o'  the  snip's  life  or  a 
living  man,  and  so  she  went  to  pieces,  Beauty,  and  no 
grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves  of  them  as 
manned  that  ship." 

"They  were  not  all  lost!"  cried  Florence.  "Some 
were  saved! — Was  one?" 

"Aboard  o'  that  there  unfort'nate  wessel,"  said  the 
captain,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  clenching  his  banil 
with  prodigious  energy  and  exultation,  "was  a  Igd,  a 
gallant  lad — as  I've  heerd  tell — that  had  loved,  when  he 
was  a  boy,  to  read  and  talk  about  brave  actions  in  ship- 
wrecks—I 've  heerd  him  I  I've  heerd  him!— and  he  re- 
membered of  'em  in  his  hour  of  need;  for  when  tlie 
stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was  hove  down,  he  was 
firm  and  cheery.  It  warn't  the  waflt  of  objects  to  like 
and  love  ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it  was  his  naf- 
ral  mind.  I  've  seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he  was  no  more 
than  a  child — ay,  many  a  time! — and  when  I  thought  it 
nothing  but  his  good  looks,  bless  him! " 

"And  was  he  saved!"  cried  Florence.  "Was  he 
saved! " 

"That  brave  lad."  said  the  captain, — "look  at  me. 
pretty!    Don't  look  round — " 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  "  Why  not?  " 

"  Because  there 's  nothing  there,  my  deary,"  said  the 
captain.  "  Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur!  Don't, 
for  the  sake  of  Wal'r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us!  X^ia* 
there  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  after  working  with  the 
best,  and    standing  by  the  faint-hearted,  and    never 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2(39 

making  no  complaint  nor  sign  of  fear,  and  keeping  up  a 
spirit  in  all  hands  that  made  'em  honor  him  aa  if  he  "d 
been  tf  admiral,— that  lad,  along  with  the  second-mate 
and  one  seaman,  was  left,  of  all  the  beatin'  hearts  that 
went  aboard  that  ship,  the  only  living  creeturs — lashed 
to  a  fragment  of  the  wreck,  and  drifting  on  the  stonny 
sea." 

"Were  they  saved!  "  cried  Florence. 

"Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless 
waters,"  said  the  captain,  "  until  at  last — No!  Don't  look 
that  way,  pretty! — a  sail  bore  down  upon 'em,  and  they 
was,  by  the  Lord's  mercy,  took  aboard:  two  living  and 
one  dead." 

"  Which  of  them  was  dead?  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  the  lad  I  epeak  on,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Thank  God!  oh  thank  God! " 

"Amen!"  returned  the  captain  hurriedly.  "Don't  be 
took  aback!  A  minute,  more,  ray  lady  lass!  with  a  good 
heart! — aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a  long  voyage, 
right  away  across  the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no  touch- 
ing nowhere),  and  on  that  voyage  the  seaman  as  was 
picked  up  with  him  died.     But  he  was  spared,  and — " 

The  captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a 
slice  of  bread  from  the  loaf,  and  put  it  on  his  hook 
(which  was  his  usual  toasting-fork),  on  which  he  now 
held  it  to  the  fire;  looking  behind  Florence  with  great 
emotion  in  his  face,  and  suffering  the  bread  to  blaze  and 
bum  like  fuel. 

*'  Was  spared,"  repeated  Florence,  "  and—?" 

"  And  come  home  in  that  ship,"  said  the  captain,  still 
looking  in  the  same  direction,  "  and— don't  be  frightened, 
pretty — and  landed;  and  one  morning  come  cautiously 
to  his  own  door  to  take  a  obserwation,  knowing  that 
his  friends  would  think  him  drownded,  when  he  sheered 
off  at  the  unexpected — " 

"  At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a  dog?  "  cried  Florence, 
quickly. 

"  Yes,"  roared  the  captain.  "Steady,  darling!  cour- 
age!   Don't  look  round  yet.  See  there!  upon  the  wall!" 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  wall  close  to 
her.  She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  a  piercing 
ciy,  saw  Walter  Gay  behind  her! 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a  brother,  a  brother 
rescued  from  the  grave;  a  shipwrecked  \>TCiVVet  ^pWi^i^ 


270  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  at  her  Bide;  and  rushed  into  his  arms.  In  aU  ihe 
world,  he  seemed  to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge, 
natural  protector.  "Take  care  of  Walter,  I  wdb  fond 
of  Walter!"  The  remembrance  of  the  plaintive  voice 
that  said  bo,  rushed  upon  her  soul,  like  music  in  the 
ni^ht.  "  Oh  welcome  home,  dear  Walterl  Welcometo 
this  stricken  breiistl"  She  felt  the  words,  although  she 
could  not  utter  them,  and  held  him  in  her  pure  embrace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe 
his  bead  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook;  and 
finding  it  an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  pal 
it  into  the  crown  of  his  glazed  bat,  put  the  glazed  bat  on 
with  some  difficulty,  essayed  to  sing  a  verse  of  Lovely 
Peg,  broke  down  at  the  first  word,  and  retired  into  the 
shop,  whence  he  presently  came  back,  express,  with  a 
face  all  flushed  and  besmeared,  and  the  starch  com- 
pletely taken  out  of  his  shirt  collar,  to  say  these  words: 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,  here  is  a  little  bit  of  property  as  1 
should  wish  to  make  over,  jintly! " 

The  captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tea- 
spoons, tlie  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  layinz 
them  on  the  table,  swept  them  with  his  great  nana 
into  Walter's  hat;  hut  in  handing  that  singular  strong 
box  to  Walter,  he  was  so  overcome  again,  that  he  was 
fain  to  make  another  retreat  into  the  shop,  and  absent 
himself  for  a  longer  space  of  time  than  on  his  first  re- 
tirement. 

But  Walter  sought  him  out,  and  brought  him  back: 
and  then  the  captain's, great  apprehension  was,  that 
Florence  would  suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it 
80  earnestly,  that  he  turned  quite  rational,  and  posi- 
tively interdicted  any  further  allusion  to  Waher's  ad- 
ventures for  some  days  to  come.  Captain  Cuttle  then 
became  sufficiently  composed  to  relieve  himself  of  the 
toast  in  his  hat,  and  to  take  his  place  at  the  tea-board; 
but  finding  Walter's  ^asp  upon  bis  shoulder,  on  one 
side,  and  Florence  whispering  her  tearful  congratula- 
tions on  the  other,  the  captain  suddenly  boltea  again, 
and  was  missed  for  a  good  ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  captain's  face  so  shone 
and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he  sat  stationary  at  the 
tea-board,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  from 
Walter  to  Florence.  Nor  was  tliis  effect  produced  or 
at  all  heightened  by  the  immense  quantity  of  polishing 

D,-:..JI, Google 


DOMBEY  ANr>  SOlJ.        .  871 

he  had  administered  to  his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve 
during  the  last  half-hour.  It  was  solely  the  effect  of 
his  internal  emotions!  There  was  a  glory  and  delight 
within  the  captain  that  spread  itself  over  his  whole 
visage,  and  made  a  perfect  Tllumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  captain  looked  upon  the 
bronzed  cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recovered 
boy:  with  which  he  saw  the  generous  fervor  of  his 
youth,  and  all  its  frank  and  hopeful  qualities,  shining 
once  more,  in  the  fresh,  wholesome  manner,  and  the 
ardent  face,  would  have  kindled  something  of  this  light 
in  his  countenance.  The  admiration  and  sympathy 
with  which  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Flounce,  whose 
beauty,  grace,  and  innocence  could  have  won  no  truer 
or  more  zealous  champion  than  himself,  would  have 
had  an  equal  influence  upon  him.  But  the  fullness  of 
the  glow  ne  shed  around  him  could  only  have  been  en- 
gendered in  hia  contemplation  of  the  two  together,  and 
in  all  the  fancies  springing  out  of  that  association,  that 
came  sparkling  and  beammg  into  his  head,  and  danced 
about  it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  on 
every  little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance; 
how  their  joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man's  absence 
and  by  the  misfortunes  of  Florence:  how  they  released 
Diogenes,  whom  the  captain  had  decoyed  up-stairs  some 
time  before,  lest  he  should  bark  again:  the  captain, 
though  he  was  in  one  continual  flutter,  and  made  many 
more  short  plunges  into  the  shop,  fully  comprehendea." 
But  he  no  more  dreamed  that  Walter  looked  on  Flor- 
ence, as  it  were,  from  a  n^  and  far-off  place;  that 
while  his  eyes  often  sought  the  lovely  face,  they  seldom 
met  its  open  glance  of  sisterly  affection,  but  withdrew 
themselves  when  hers  were  raised  towards  him:  than 
he  believed  that  it  was  Walter's  ghost  who  sat  beside 
him.  He  saw  them  there  together  in  their  youth  and 
beauty,  and  he  knew  the  story  of  their  younger  days, 
and  he  had  no  inch  of  room  beneath  his  great  blue 
waistcoat  for  anything  save  admiration  of  such  a  pair, 
and  gratitude  for  their  being  re-united. 

They  sat  thus  until  it  grew  late.  The  captain  would 
have  been  content  to  sit  so,  for  a  week.  But  Walter 
rose,  to  take  leave  for  the  night. 

"Going,  Walter!"  said  Florence.     "Where?" 

C.oogk 


572  ^       DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  He  sliugs  his  hammoct  for  the  present,  lady  lass," 
said  Captain  Cuttle,  "round  atBrogley's.  Within  hail, 
Heart's  Delight." 

"I  am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,"  said 
Florence.     '"There  is  a  houseless  sister  in  your  place." 

"Dear  Miss  Dombey,"  replied  Walter,  hesitating— 
"if  it  is  not  too  bold,  to  call  you  sol — " 

"  — Walter!  "  she  exclaimed,  surprised, 

"  If  anything  could  make  rae  happier  in  beinc  allowed 
to  see  and  spe^  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery 
that  I  had  any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a  moment  t 
service?  Where  would  I  not  go,  what  would  I  not  dc, 
for  your  sak^" 

She  smilear and  called  him  brother. 

"  You  are  so  changed,"'  said  Walter — 

"I  changedl"  she  mterrupted. 

"  —To  me,"  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing aloud,  "changed  to  me.  I  left  you  such  a  child, 
and  find  you — oh!  something  so  different —  " 

"But  your  sister,  Walter,  You  have  not  forgotten 
what  we  promised  to  each  other,  when  we  parted.''" 

"Forgotten!"    But  he  said  no  more. 

"Ana  if  you  had — if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven 
it  from  your  thoughts — which  it  has  not — you  would  re- 
member it  now,  >Valter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and 
abandoned,  with  no  home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but 
the  two  who  hear  me  speak!  " 

"  I  would!  Heaven  knows  I  would! "  said  Walter. 
■  "Oh,  Walter,"  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs 
and  tears.  "Dear  Brother!  Show  me  some  way  through 
the  world— some  humble  path  that  I  may  taie  alone, 
and  labor  in,  and  sometimes  think  of  you  as  one  who 
will  protect  and  care  for  me  as  for  a  sister!  Oh,  help 
me,  Walter,  for  I  need  help  so  much! " 

"Miss  Dombey!  Florence!  I  would  die  to  help  you. 
But  your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.    Your  father — " 

"  No,  no!  Walter! '  She  shrieked,  and  put  her  hands 
up  to  her  head  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that  transfixed 
him  where  he  stood.     "  Don't  say  that  wordi " 

He  never  from  that  hour,  forgot  the  voice  and  look 
with  which  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  that 
if  he  were  to  live  a  hundred  years,  he  never  could  for- 
get it. 

Somewhere — anywhere — but  never  home!    All  past, 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2?;! 

all  gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up!  The  whole  history  of 
her  untold  slight  and  suffering  was  in  the  cry  and  look; 
and  he  felt  he  never  could  forget  it,  and  he  never  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  fiice  upon  the  captain's  shoulder, 
and  related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sor- 
rowing tear  she  shed  in  doing  so  had  been  a  curse  upon 
the  head  of  him  she  never  named  or  blamed,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  him,  Walter  thought  with  awe, 
than  to  be  renounced  out  of  such  a  strength  and  might 
of  love. 

"  There>  precious! "  said  the  captain,  when  she  ceased; 
and  deep  attention  the  captain  had  paid  to  her  while 
she  spoke;  listening,  with  his  glazed  hat  all  awry,  aad 
his  mouth  wide  open.  "Awast,  awast,  my  eyesl  Wal'r, 
dear  lad,  sheer  off  for  to-night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one 
to  me ! " 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  put  it  to  his 
tips  and  kissed  it.  He  knew  now  that  she  was,  indeed, 
a  homeless  wandering  fugitive;  but,  richer  to  him  bo 
than  in  all  the  wealth  and  pride  of  her  right  station, 
she  seemed  farther  off  than  even  on  the  height  that  had 
made  him  giddy  in  his  boyish  dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations, 
guarded  Florence  to  her  room,  and  watched  at  intervals 
upon  the  charmed  ground  outside  her  door — for  such  it 
truly  was  to  him — until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his 
mind  about  her,  to  turn  in  under  the  counter.  On 
abandoning  his  watch  for  that  purpose,  he  could  not 
help  calling  once,  rapturously,  through  the  keyhole, 
"  Drownded.  Au't  he,  pretty?  ' — or,  when  he  got  down- 
stairs, making  another  trial  at  that  verse  of  Lovely  Peg. 
But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he  could  make 
nothing  of  it;  so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  old 
Sol  Gills  was  married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kept 
prisoner  by  that  lady  in  a  secret  cham^r  on  a  short 
allowance  of.  victuals. 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


an  BOMBK?  AND  SON. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

ME.  TOOTS'S  COMPLAINT. 

There  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the  Wooden 
Midshipman's,  whicn,  in  days  of  yore,  had  beeD  Walter's 
bedroom.  Walter,  rousing  up  the  captain  betimes  in 
the  morning,  proposed  that  they  should  carry  thither 
such  furniture  out  of  the  little  parlor  as  would  ^race  it 
best,  BO  that  Florence  might  take  possession  of  it  when 
she  rose.  As  nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  than  making  himself  very  red  and  short  of 
breath  in  such  a  cause,  ne  turned  to  (as  he  himself  said) 
with  a  will;  and,  in  a  couple  of  hours,  this  garret  was 
'  transformed  into  a  species  of  land-cabin,  adorned  with 
all  the  choicest  movables  out  of  the  parlor,  inclusive 
even  of  the  Tartar  frigate,  which  the  captain  hung  up 
over  the  chimney-piece  with  such  extreme  delight,  that 
he  could  do  nothmg  for  half-an-hour  afterwards  but 
walk  backward  from  it,  lost  in  admiration. 

The  captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of 
Walter's  to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back  the 
canister,  or  to  touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  tea-spoons. 
"  No,  no,  my  lad; "  was  the  captain's  invariable  reply  to 
any  solicitation  of  the  kind,  "  I've  made  that  there  httle 
prpperty  over,  jintly."     These  words  he  repeated  with 

great  unction  and  gravity,  evidently  believing  that  they 
ad  the  virtue  of  an  Act  of  Parliament,  and  that  unless 
he  committed  himself  by  some  new  admission  of  owner- 
ship, no  flaw  could  be  found  in  such  a  form  of  convey- 
ance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new  arrangement,  that 
besides  the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it  ad- 
mitted of  the  Midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual 
post  of  observation,  and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being 
taken  down.  The  latter  ceremony,  however  little  im- 
portance the  unconscious  captain  attached  to  it,  was 
not  wholly  superfluous;  for,  on  the  previous  dav.  so 
much  excitement  had  been  occasioned  in  the  neignbor- 
hood,  by  the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the 
Instrument-maker's  house  had  been  honored  with  an  , 
unusual  share  of  public  observation,  and  had  been  in- 
tently stared  at  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  by 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  275 

.  groups  of  hungry  Kiueers,  at  any  time  between  sUDTise 
and  sunset.  The  idlers  and  vagabonds  bad  been  par- 
ticularly interested  in  the  captain's  fate;  constantly 
grovelling  in  the  mud  to  apply  their  eyes  to  the  cellar- 
bating,  under  the  sbop-wmdow,  and  delighting  their 
imaginations  with  the  fancy  that  they  could  see  a.  piece 
of  his  coat  as  he  hung  in  a  corner;  though  this  settle- 
ment of  him  was  stoutly  disputed  by  an  opposite  faction, 
who  were  of  opinion  that  he  lay  murdered  with  a  ham- 
mer, on  the  stairs.  It  was  not  without  exciting  some 
discontent,  therefore,  that  the  subject  of  these  rumors 
was  seen  early  in  the  morning  standing  at  his  shop-door 
as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  nothing  had  hap[)eDed:  and  the 
beadle  of  that  quarter,  a  man  of  an  ambitious  cKaracter, 
who  had  expected  to  have  the  distinction  of  being  pres- 
ent at  the  breaking  open  of  the  door,  and  of  giving  evi- 
dence in  full  uniform  before  the  coroner,  went  so  w  as 
to  say  to  an  opposite  neighbor,  that  the  chap  in  the 
glazed  hat  had  better  not  try  it  on  there — without  more 

Earticularly  mentioning  what — and  further,  that  he,  the 
eadle,  would  keep  his  eye  upon  him. 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they 
stood  resting  from  their  labors  at  the  shop-door,  looking 
down  the  old  familiar  street;  it  being  still  early  in  the 
morning;  "nothing  at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that  time!" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  shaking 
his  head. 

"Gone  in  "search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,"  said 
Walter;  "y^t  never  write  to  you!  But  why  not?  He 
says,  in  effect,  in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,"  taking 
the  paper  from  his  pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in 
the  presence  of  the  enlightened  Bunsby,  "  that  if  you 
never  hear  from  him  before  opening  it,  you  may  believe 
bim  dead.  Heaven  forbid !  But  you  would  have  heard 
o/ him,  even  if  he  M^ere  dead!  Some  one  would  have 
written,  surely,  by  his  desire,  if  he  could  not;  and  have 
said,  'on  such  a  d.ay,  there  died  in  my  house,'  'or under 
my  care,'  or  so  forth, '  Mr,  Solomon  Gills  of  London,  who 
left  this  last  remembrance  and  this  last  request  to  you.' " 

The  c£q>tain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a  clear 
height  01  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  wide  prospect  it  opened,  and  answered,  with  a 
thoughtful  shake  of  his  head, ' '  Well  said,  my  lad;  wery 
well  said."  ^  Ciuooir 


276  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"'I  have  been  thinking  of  this  or,  at  least,"  said  Wa!-, 
ter,  coloring,  "I  have  been  thinking  of  one  thing  and 
another,  all  through  a  BleeplesB  night,  and  I  cannot  be- 
lieve, Captain  Cuttle,  but  that  my  TJncle  Sol  (Lord  bless 
him!)  18  alive,  and  will  return,  I  don't  so  much  wonder 
at  his  going  away,  because  leaving  out  of  consideration 
that  spice  of  the  marvellous  which  was  always  in  hi3 
character,  and  his  great  affection  for  me,  before  which 
every  other  consideration  of  his  life  became  nothing,  as 
no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I  who  had  the  best  of 
fathers  in  him," — Walter's  voice  was  indistinct  and 
husky  here,  and  he  looked  away,  along  the  street,— 
"  leaving  that  out  of  consideration,  I  say,  I  have  often 
read  and  heard  of  people  who,  having  some  near  and 
dear  relative,  who  was  supposed  to  be  shipwrecked  at 
sea,  have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of  the  sea- 
shore where  any  tidings  of  the  missing  ship  might  be 
expected  to  arrive,  though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner 
■  than  elsewhere,  or  have  even  gone  upon  her  track  to 
the  place  whither  she  was  bound,  as  if  their  going 
would  create  intelligence.  I  think  I  should  do  such  a 
thing  myself,  as  soon  as  another,  or  sooner  than  many, 
perhaps.  But  why  my  uncle  shouldn't  wTite  to  you, 
when  he  so  clearly  intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he  should 
die  abroad,  and  you  not  know  it  through  some  other 
hand,  I  cannot  make  out." 

Captain  Cuttle  observed  with  a  shake  pt  his  head, 
that  Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn't  made  it  out.  and  that 
he  was  a  man  as  could  give  a  pretty  taut  opinion  too. 

"  If  my  uncle  had  been  a  heedless  young  man.  likely 
to  be  entrapped  by  jovial  company  to  some  (irinking- 
place,  where  he  was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of 
what  money  he  might  have  about  him,"  said  Walter; 
"  or  if  he  had  been  a  reckless  sailor,  going  ashore  with 
two  or  three  months'  pay  in  his  pocket,  Icould  under- 
stand his  disappearing,  and  leaving  no  trace  behind. 
But,  being  what  he  was — and  is,  I  hope — I  can't  believe 
it." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  inquired  the  captain,  wistfullv  eye- 
ing him  as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  "what  do  you 
make  of  it,  then?" 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  ' 

hat  to  make  of  it.     I  suppo 
There  is  no  doubt  about  that?  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  277 

"If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,"  replied  the  cap- 
tain, ar^iunentatively,  "where's  his  dispatch?" 

"  Say  that  he  intrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,"  sug- 
gested Walter,  "  and  that  it  has  been  forgotten  or  care- 
lessly thrown  aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable 
to  me,  than  the  other  event.  In  short,  I  not  only  can- 
not bear  to  contemplate  that  other  event,  Captain 
Cuttle,  but  I  can't,  and  won't," 

"  Hope,  you  see,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  sagely, 
"  Hope.  It's  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a  buoy,  for 
whicn  you  overhaul  your  Little  Warbler,  sentimental 
diwision,  but  Lord,  my  lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only 
floats;  it  can't  be  steered  nowhere.  Along  with  the 
fig»re-head  of  Hope,"  said  the  captain,  "there's  a 
anchor;  but  what's  the  good  of  my  having  a  anchor,  if 
I  can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in." 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of  a 
sagacious  citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a 
morsel  from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced 
youth,  than  in  his  own  proper  person.  Indeed,  his  face 
was  quite  luminous  as  he  spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught 
from  Walter;  and  he  appropriately  concluded  by  slap- 
ping him  on  the  back;  and  saying,  with  enthusiasm, 
•'  Hooroar,  my  lad!    Indiwidually,  Pm  o'  your  opinion." 

Walter,  with  his  che^ful  laugh,  returned  the  saluta- 
tion, and  said: 

"  Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present. 
Captain  Cuttle.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  that  be  can 
have  written  in  the  ordinary  course — by  mail  packet,  or 
ship  letter,  you  understand — " 

"Ay,  av,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  approvingly. 

"  — ana  that  you  have  missed  the  letter,  any  how?  " 

"  Why,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  turning  his  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  faint  approach  to  a  severe  expression, 
"  an't  I  been  on  the  lookout  for  any  tidings  of  that  man 
o'  science,  old  Sol  Gills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night,  ever 
since  I  lost  him?  An't  my  heart  been  heavy  and  watch- 
ful always,  along  of  him  and  you?  Sleepmg  and  wak- 
ing, an't  I  been  upon  my  post,  and  wouldn't  I  have 
scorned  to  quit  it  while  this  here  Midshipman  held 
together!" 

"  Yes,  Captain  Cuttle,"  replied  Walter,  grasping  his 
hand,  "  I  know  you  would,  and  I  know  how  faftMv^ 
and  earnest  all  you  eay  and  feel  is.    I  am  wne  oS-  '*.. 


S78  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

You  don't  doubt  that  I  am  as  sure  of  it  ets  I  am  that  m; 
foot  is  again  upon  this  door-Btep,  or  that  I  again  have 
hold  of  this  true  hand.    Do  you? 

"  No,  no,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain,  with  his  beam- 
ing face. 

"  I'll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,"  said  Walter,  fer- 
Tentl;y' shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  captain,  who  shook 
his  with  no  less  good  will.  "All  I  will  add  ia,  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  touch  my  uncle'B  poeseBsions,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle!  Everything  that  he  left  here  shall  remain 
in  the  care  of  the  truest  of  stewards  and  kindest  of 
men — and  if  his  name  is  not  Cuttle,  he  has  no  name! 
Now,  best  of  friends,  about — Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  change  in  Walter's  manner,  as  he  came 
to  these  two  words;  and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his 
confidence  and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted 
him. 

"  I  thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I 
spoke  of  ner  father  last  night,"  said  Walter — "you 
remember  how?  "  « 

The  captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  thought,"  said  Walter,  "before  that,  that  we 
liad  but  one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to 
prevail  upon  her  to  communicate  with  her  friends,  and 
to  return  home."  , 

The  captain  muttered  a  feeble  "AwastI "  or  a  "  Stand 
by!  "  or  something  or  other,  equally  pertinent  to  theoc- 
casionj  but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble  by  the 
total  discomfiture  with  which  he  received  this  announce- 
ment, that  what  it  was  is  mere  matter  of  conjecture, 

"But,"  said  Walter,  "that  is  over..  I  think  so  no 
longer.  I  would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that 
piece  of  wreck,  on  which  I  have  so  often  floated,  sine* 
my  preservation,  iu  my  dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift, 
and  drive,  and  die! "' 

"  Hooroar,  my  lad! "  exclaimed  the  captain,  in  a  burst 
of  uucoutroUable  satisfaction.  "  Hooroar!  Hooroar! 
Hooroar! " 

"  To  think  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beautiful," 
said  Walter,  "so  delicately  brought  up,  a©d  bom  to 
such  a  different  fortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough  ' 
world!  But  we  have  seen  the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  be- 
hind her,  though  no  one  but  herself  can  know  how  deep 
it  is;  and  there  is  no  return," 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AKD  SON.  270 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this, 
greafly  approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a  tone  or  strong 
coiTol>oration,  that  the  wind  was  right  abaft. 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here:  ought  she,  Captain 
Cuttle?"  said  Walter,  anxiously, 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  after  a  little  ea- 

gacious  consideration.  "  I  don't  know.  You  being 
ere  to  keep  her  company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being 
Jintly— " 

"Dear  Captain  Cuttle!"  remonstrated  Walter,  "I 
being  here!  Miss  Dombey,  in  her  guileless,  innocent 
heart,  regards  me  as  her  adopted  orother;  but  what 
would  the  guile  and  guilt  of  my  heart  be,  if  I  pretended 
to  believe  that  I  had  any  right  to  approach  her,  famil- 
iarly, in  that  character — if  I  pretended  to  forget  that  I 
amDouud,  in  honor,  not  to  do  it!" 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  hinted  the  captain,  with  some  re- 
vival of  his  discomfiture,  "  an't  there  no  other  character 
as — " 

"Oh! "  returned  Walter,  "  would  you  have  me  die  in 
her  esteem — in  such  esteem  as  hers — and  ptTt  a  veil  be- 
tween myself  and  her  angel's  face  for  ever,  by  taking 
advantage  of  her  being  here  for  refuge,  so  trusting  and 
so  unprotected,  to  endeavor  to  exalt  myself  into  her 
lover!  What  do  I  say?  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
who  would  be  more  opposed  to  me  if  I  could  do  so,  than 
you," 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  drooping  more 
and  more,  "  prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  or 
impediment  why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  to- 
gether in  the  house  of  bondage,  for  ivhich  you'll  over- 
haul the  place  and  make  a  note,  I  hope  I  should  declare 
it  as  promised  and  wowed  in  the  banns.  So  there  an't 
NO  other  character;  an't  there,  my  lad! " 

Walter  briskly  waved  Ijis  hand  in  the  negative. 

"  Well, my laa,"  growled  the  captain  slowly,  "Iwon't 
deny  but  what  I  find  myself  wery  much-  down  by  the 
head,  along  o'  this  here,  or  but  what  I've  gone  clean 
about.  But  as  to  Lady-lass,  Wal'r,  mind  you,  wot's 
respect  and  duty  to  her  is  respect  and  Aatj  m  my  arti- 
cles, howsumever  disapinting;  and  therefore  I  follows 
in  your  wake,  my  lad,  and  feel  as  you  are,  no  doubt, 
actmg  up  to  yourself.  And  there  an't  no  other  char- 
acter,   an't   there!  "    said   the    captain,   TaM%\Tv%  ts^^-^ 


S80  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  ruins  of  hiB  fallen  castle  with  a  very  despondent 
face. 

"Now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  starting  afresh 
point  with  a  gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  captain  up— but 
nothing  could  do  that;  he  was  too  much  concerned — "  1 
think  we  should  exert  ourselves  to  find  some  one  who 
would  be  a  proper  attendant  for  Miss  Dombey  while  she 
remains  here,  and  who  may  be  trusted.  None  of  her 
relations  may.  It's  clear  Miss  Dombey  feels  that  they 
are  all  subservient  to  her  father.  What  has  become  of 
Susan? " 

"The  young  woman?"  returned  the  captain.  "It's 
my  belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  of  Heart's 
Delight.  I  made  a  signal  for  her  when  Lady-lass  first 
come,  and  she  rated  of  her  wery  high,  and  said  she 
had  been  gone  a  long  time," 

"Then,"  said  Walter,  "do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey 
where  she's  gone,  and  we'll  try  to  find  her.  The  morn- 
ing's getting  on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising. 
You  are  her  best  friend.  Wait  for  her  up-stairs,  and 
leave  me  tcHake  care  of  all  down  here." 

The  captain,  very  crest-fallen  indeed,  echoed  the  sigh 
with  which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence 
was  delighted  with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Wal- 
ter, and  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old 
friend  Susan.  But  Florence  could  not  say  where  Susan 
was  gone,  except  that  it  was  in  Essex,  and  no  one  could 
say,  she  rememoered,  unless  it  were  Mr.  Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  captain  re- 
turned to  Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr. 
Toots  was  the  young  gentleman  whom  he  had  encount- 
ered on  the  door-step,  and  that  he  was  a  friend  of  his. 
and  that  he  was  a  young  gentleman  of  property,  and 
that  he  hopelessly  adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  captain 
also  related  how  the  intelligence  of  Waiter's  supposed 
fate  had  first  made  him  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toots,  and 
how  there  was  solemn  treaty  and  compact  between 
them,  that  Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  subject 
of  his  love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust 
Mr.  Toots;  and  Florence  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Oh, 
yes,  with  her  whole  hearti "  it  became  important  to 
find  out  where  Mr.  Toots  lived.  This  Florence  didn't 
know,  and  the  captain  had  forgotten;  and  the  captain 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  -iAi 

was  telling  Walter,  in  the  little  parlor,  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  sure  to  be  there  soon,  when  in  came  Mr.  Toots  him- 
self. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  eaid  Mr,  Toots,  rushing  into  the  par- 
lor without  any  ceremony,  "  I'm  in  a  state  of  mind  bor- 
dering on  distraction! "' 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,'  as  from  a 
mortar,  before  he  observed  Walter,  whom  he  recognised 
witli  what  may  be  described  as  a  chuckle  of  misery. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  his 
forehead,  "  but  I'm  at  present  in  that  state  that  my 
brain  is  going,  if  not  gone,  and  anything  approaching 
to  politeness  m  an  individual  so  situated  would  be  a 
hollow  mockery.  Captain  GiUs,  I  beg  to  request  the 
favor  of  a  private  interview.' 

"  Why,  brother,"  returned  the  captain,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  "  you  are  the  man  as  we  was  on  the  lookout 
for." 

"  Oh,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  a  look- 
out that  must  be  of  which  Jam  the  object!  I  haven't 
dared  to  shave,  I'm  in  that  rash  state,  I  haven't  had 
my  clothes  brushed.  My  hair  is  matted  together.  I 
told  the  Chicken  that  if  he  offered  to  clean  my  boot  ■ 
I'd  stretch  him  a  Corpse  before  me! " 

All  these  indications  of  a  disordered  mind  were  ver- 
ified in   Mr.   Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  and 


"  See  here,  brother,"  said  the  captain,  "This  here's 
old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  Wal'r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to 
have  perished  at  sea." 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  fi-om  his  forehead  and  stared 
at  Walter. 

"Good  gracious  me!"  stammered  Mr.  Toots.  "What 
a  complication  of  misery!  How -de-do?  I — I — I'm 
afraid  you  must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will 
you  allow  me  a  word  in  the  shop?  " 

He  took  the  captain  by  the  coat,  and  going  out  with 
him  whispered: 

"That  then.  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of, 
-when  you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  made  for 
one  another?  " 

"Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  captain; 
"  I  w^as  of  that  mind  once." 

"And  at  this  time!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Too^^,>q>'^V»> 


2M2  DOMBEY  AND  SOK. 

hand  to  his  forehead  again.  "Of  all  others! — a  hated 
rival!  At  least,  he  an't  a  hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toote, 
stopping  short,  on  second  thoughts,  and  taking  away 
his  hand;  "  what  should  I  hate  him  for?  No.  If  mj 
affection  has  been  triily  disinterested.  Captain  Gills,  let 
me  prove  it  now?" 

Mr.  Toots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlor,  and 
said,  wringing  Walter  by  the  hand: 

"  How-de-do?  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  cold,  I— I 
shall  be  very  glad  if  you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  vour 
acquaintance.  I.wish  you  many  happy  returns  ot  the 
day.  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  said  Mr,  Toots,  warm- 
ing as  he  became  better  acquainted  with  "Walter's  face 
and  figure,  "I'm  very  glad  to  see  you! " 

"  Thaukyou  heartily,"  said  Walter.  "  I  couldn't  desire 
a  more  genuine  and  genial  welcome." 

"  Couldn't  you  though?  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  still  shaking 
his  hand.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you.  How-de-do?  I  hope  you  left  everybody  quite 
well  over  the— that  is,  upon  the — I  mean  wherever  yon 
came  from  last,  yoa  know." 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Walter 
responded  to  manfully. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  wish  to  be 
strictly  honorable;  but  I  trust  I  may  be  allowed  now,  to 
allude  to  a  certain  subject  that — " 

"Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.  "Freely, 
freely." 

"  "Then,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  Lieuten- 
ant Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful  cir- 
cumstances have  been  happening  at  Mr.  Dombey's 
house,  and  that  Miss  Dombey  herself  has  left  her  father, 
who,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  great  excite- 
ment, "  is  a  Brute,  that  it  would  be  a  flattery  to  call  a 
— a  marble  monument,  or  a  bird  of  prey, — and  that  she 
is  not  to  be  found,  and  has  gone  no  one  knows  where? " 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  heard  this?"  inquired  Walter. 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
arrived  at  that  appellation  by  a  process  peculiar  to 
himself;  probably  by  jumbling  up  his  Christian  name 
with  the  seafaring  profession,  ana  supposing  some  rela- 
tionship between  mm  and  the  captain,  which  would  ex- 
tend, as  a  matter  of  course,  to  their  titles;  "  Lieutenant 
Walters,  I  can  have  no  objection  to  make  a  straight- 


DOMbEY  AND  SON.  883 

forward  reply.  The  fact  is,  that  feeling  extremely  in- 
terested in  everything  that  relates  to  Miss  Dombey — 
not  for  any  selfish  reason.  Lieutenant  Walters,  for  I  am 
well  aware  that  the  most  agreeable  thing  I  could  do  for 
all  parties  would  be  to  put  an  end  to  my  existence, 
which  can  only  be  regarded  as  an  inconvenience^I 
have  heen  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  a  trifle  now  and 
then  upon  a  footman;  a  most  respectable  young  man,  of 
the  name  of  Towlinson,  who  has  lived  in  the  family 
some  time;  and  Towlinson  informed  me,  yesterday 
evening,  that  this  was  the  state  of  things.  Since  which, 
Captain  Gills — and  Lieutenant  Walters — I  have  been 
perfectly  frantic,  and  have  been  lying  down  on  the  sofa 
all  night,  the  Ruin  vou  behold." 

"  Mr,  Toots,"  said  Walter,  "  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
relieve  your  mind.  Pray  calm  yourself.  Miss  Dombey 
is  safe  and  well." 

"  Sir!  "  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and 
shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  "  the  relief  is  so  exces- 
sive, and  unspeakable,  that  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now 
that  Miss  Dombey  was  married  even,  I  could  smile. 
Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots  appealing  to  him, 
"upon  my  soul  and  body,  I  really  thmk,  whatever  I 
might  do  to  myself  immediately  afterwards,  that  I 
could  smile,  I  am  so  relieved." 

"  It  will  be  a  greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such  a 
generous  mind  as  yours,"  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow  in 
returning  his  greeting,  "to  find  that  you  can  render 
service  to  Miss  Dombey.  Captain  Cuttle,  will  you  have 
the  kindness  to  take  Mr.  Toots  up-stairs?" 

The  captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toot'',  who  followed  him 
with  a  bewildered  countenance,  and,  ascending  to  the 
top  of  the  house,  was  introduced,  without  a  word  of 
preparation  from  his  conductor,  into  Florence's  new  re- 
treat. 

Poor  Mr,  Toots's  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of 
her  were  such,  that  they  could  find  a  vent  in  nothing 
but  extravagance.  He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  handi 
kissed  it,  dropped  it,  seized  it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee, 
shed  tears,*  cnuckled,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  his 
danger  of  being  pinned  by  Diogenes,  who  inspired  by 
the  belief  that  there  was  somethmg  hostile  to  nis  mis- 
tress in  these  demonstrations,  worked  round  and  round 
him,  as  if  only  imdocided  at  what  particular  point  to  go 


284  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in  for  the  assault  but  quite  resolved  to  do  him  a  fearful 
mischief. 

"  Oh  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog!  Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I 
am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you!  " 

"Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "I  am  pretty  well,  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Dombey.  1  hope  all  tlie 
family  are  the  same." 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  what 
he  was  talking  about,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  staring 
at  Florence  with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  ana 
despair  going  on  in  his  face  that  any  face  could  exhibit. 

"  Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  men- 
tioned Miss  Dombey,"  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  "that  I  can  do 
you  some  service.  If  I  could  by  any  means  wash  out 
the  remembrance  of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I  con- 
ducted myself — much  more  like  a  Parricide  than  a  per- 
son of  independent  proper' "  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
severe  self-accusation,  "  I  should  sink  into  the  silent 
tomb  with  a  gleam  of  joy." 

"Pray,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,"  do  not  wish  me  to 
forget  anything  in  our  acquaintance.  I  never  can,  be- 
lieve me.  You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to  me, 
always. " 

"  Miss  Dombey."  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  your  consider- 
ation for  my  feelings  is  a  part  of  your  angelic  character. 
Thank  you  a  thousand  times.  It's  of  no  consequence 
at  all." 

"What  we  thought  of  asking  you,"  said  Florence, 
"is,  whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you 
were  so  kind  as  to  accompany  to  the  coach-office  when 
she  left  me,  is  to  be  found  ? " 

"  Why  I  do  not  certainly.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  after  a  little  hesitation,  "  remember  the  exact 
name  of  the  place  that  was  on  the  coach;  and  I  do 
recollect  tliat  she  said  she  was  not  going  to  stop  there, 
but  was  going  farther  on.  But,  Miss  Dombey,  if  your 
object  is  to  find  her  and  to  have  her  here,  myself  and 
the  Chicken  will  produce  her  with  every  dispatch  that 
devotion  on  my  part  and  great  intelligence  on  the 
Chicken's  can  insure." 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived  by 
the  prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested  sin- 
cerity of  his  devotion  was  so  unquestionable,  that  it 
would  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  liim.     Florence,  with  au 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  285 

jnetmctive  delicacy,  forbore  to  urge  the  least  obstacle, 
though  she  did  not  forbear  to  overpower  him  with 
thanks^  and  Mr.  Toots  proudly  took  the  conunission 
upon  himself  for  immediate  execution. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  touching  her  proffered 
hand,  with  a  pajig  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shooting 
through  him  and  flashing  out  in  his  face,  "Good  by! 
Allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  your  mis- 
fortunes make  me  perfectly  wretched  and  that  you  may 
trust  me  next  to  Captain  Qills  himself.  I  am  quite 
aware,  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  own  deficiencies — they're 
uot  of  the  least  consequence,  thank  you — but  I  am  en- 
tirely to  be  relied  upon,  I  do  assure  you.  Miss  Dombey." 

with  that  Mr,  Toots  come  out  of  the  room  again, 
accompanied  by  the  captain,  who,  standing  at  a  little  ' 
distance,  holding  his  hat  under  his  arm  ana  arranging 
his  scattered  locks  with  his  hook,  had  been  a  not  uninter- 
ested witness  of  what  had  passed.  And  wlien  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  the  light  of  Mr.  Toots's  life  was 
darkly  clouded  again. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  turning  round,"  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  at  the  present 
moment,  in  which  I  could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with 
that  entirely  friendly  feeling  towards  him  that  I  should 
wish  to  harbor  in  my  breast.  We  cannot  always  com- 
mand our  feelings,  Captain  Gills,  and  I  should  take  it  as 
apartieularfavor  if  vou'dletmeoutat  the  private  door."' 

"  Broker,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  shall  shape  your 
own  course.  Wotever  course  you  take  is  plain  and  sea- 
manlike, I'm  wery  sure." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots, " you're  extremely 
kind.     Your  good  opinion  is  a  consolation  to  me.     There 


is  one  thing, '  said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage, 
behind  the  half -opened  door,"  that  I  hope  you'll  bear  in 
mind.  Captain  Gills,  and  that  I  should  wish  Lieutenant 


Walters  to  be  made  acquainted  with.  I  have  quite 
come  irfto  my  property  now,  you  know,  and — and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I  could  be  at  all  useful  in 
a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  I  should  glide  into  the  silent 
tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness." 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself  to  cut  the  captam  off  from 
any  reply. 


386  DOMBEY  AND  SOK. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature  long  after  he 
had  left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  pain  and  pleasure. 
He  was  bo  honest  and  warm-hearted  that  to  see  him 
again  and  be  assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her  distress, 
was  a  joy  and  comfort  beyond  all  price;  but  for  that  very 
reason  it  was  so  affecting  to  think  that  she  caused  him 
a  moment's  unhappiness  or  ruffled,  by  a  breath,  the 
harmless  current  of  his  life,  that  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  and  her  bosom  overflowed  with  pity.  Captain 
Cuttle,  in  his  dilferent  way.  thought  much  of  Mr.  Toots 
too;  and  so  did  Walter;  and  when  the  evening  came  and 
they  were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence's  new  room. 
Walter  praised  him  in  a  most  impassioned  manner,  and 
told  Florence  what  he  had  said  on  leaving  the  house, 
with  every  graceful  setting-off  in  the  way  of  conuneot 
and  appreciation  that  his  owd  honesty  and  sympathy 
could  surround  it  with. 

Mr.  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  the 
next,  or  for  several  days;  and  in  the  meanwhile  Flor- 
ence, without  any  new  alarm,  lived  like  a  quiet  bird  in 
a  cage,  at  the  top  of  the  old  Instrument-maker's  house. 
But  Florence  drooped  and  hung  her  head  more  and 
more  plainly,  as  the  davs  went  on;  and  the  expression 
that  had  been  seen  in  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  wai 
often  turned  to  the  sky  from  her  high  window,  as  if  it 
sought  his  angel  out  on  the  bright  shore  of  which  he 
had  spoken:  lying  on  his  little  bed, 

Florence  had  been  weak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the 
agitation  she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ences on  her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that 
affected  her  now.  She  was  distressed  in  mind;  and  the 
cause  of  her  distress  was  Walter, 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to 
serve  her,  and  showing  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardor  of  his  character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided 
her.  All  the  long  day  through  he  seldom  approached 
her  room.  If  she  asked  for  him,  he  came,  again  for 
the  moment  as  earnest  and  as  bright  as  she  rem^bered 
him  when  she  was  a  lost  child  in  the  staring  streets; 
but  he  soon  became  constrained — her  quick  affection 
was  too  watchful  not  to  know  it — and  uneasy,  and  soon 
left  her.  Unsought,  he  never  came,  all  day,  between 
the  morning  and  the  night.  When  the  evening  4;loeed 
in,  he  was  always  there,  and  that  was  her  happiest 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  28? 

time,  for  then  she  half  believed  that  the  old  Walter  of 
her  childhood  wa6  not  changed.  But,  even  then,  some 
trivial  word,  look,  or  circumstance  would  show  her  that 
there  was  an  indefinable  division  between  them  which 
could  not  be  passed. 
And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealinRS  of  a 

freat  alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in 
espite  of  his  utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  con- 
sideration for  her,  she  thought,  and  in  Che  earnestness 
of  his  desire  to  spare  her  any  wound  from  his  kind 
hand,  he  resorted  to  innumerable  little  artifices  and  dis- 
guises. So  much  the  more  did  Florence  feel  the  great- 
ness of  the  alteration  in  him;  so  much  the  oftener  did 
she  weep  at  this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  captain — her  untiring,  tender,  ever-zealous 
friend — saw  it  too,  Florence  thougnt,  and  it  pained  him. 
He  was  less  clieerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at 
first,  and  would  steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns, 
when  they  were  all  three  together  of  an  evening,  with 
quite  a  sad  face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She 
believed  she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrange- 
ment was,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her 
full  heart,  and  would  set  him  more  at  ease,  if  she  told 
him  she  had  found  it  out,  and  quite  submitted  to  it,  and 
did  not  reproach  him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon  that  Florence 
took  this  resolution.  The  faithful  captain,  in  an  amaz- 
ing shirt  collar,  was  sittine  by  her,  reading  with  his 
spectacles  on,  and  she  asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

"  I  think  he's  down  below,  my  lady  lass,"  returned 
the  captain. 

"  I  snould  like  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Florence,  rising 
hurriedly,  as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

"I'll  rouse  him  up  here.  Beauty,"  said  the  captain, 
"in  a  trice," 

Thereupon  the  captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shoul- 
dered his  book — for  he  made  it  a  point  of  dutv  to  read 
none  but  very  large  books  on  a  Sunday,  as  naving  a 
more  staid  appearance:  and  had  bargained,  years  ^o, 
for  a  prodigious  volume  at  a  book-stall,  five  lines  of 
which  utterly  confounded  him  at  any  time,  insomuch 
that  he  had  not  yet  ascertained  of  what  subject  it 
treated— and  withdrew,    Walter  soon  ap^ate*!. 


'^SS  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

"  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me,  Miss  Dombey," —  he  e^erly 
began  on  coming  in — but  stopped  when  he  saw  her 
face. 

"  YoH  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  look  distressed. 
You  have  been  weeping," 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  fervent  tremor 
in  his  voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the 
sound  of  his  words. 

"Walter,"  said  Florence,  gently,  "I  am  not  quite 
well,  and  I've  been  weeping.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful 
and  innocent  face;  and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his 
lips  trembled. 

"You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I  knew  that  you 
were  saved — and  oh!  dear  Walter,  what  I  felt  that 
night,  and  what  I  hoped! " — 

He  put  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between 
them,  and  sat  looking  at  her. 

"  —  that  I  was  changed.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  you 
say  so,  but  I  understand,  now,  that  I  am.  Don't  be 
angry  with  me,  Walter.  I  was  too  much  overjoyed  to 
think  of  it,  then." 

She  seemed  a  child  to  him  again.  It  was  the  ingenu- 
ous, confiding,  loving  child,  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the 
dear  woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the 
riches  of  the  earth. 

"  You  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  Walter,  be- 
fore you  went  away  ? " 

HeTput  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a  little 
purse. 

"I  have  always  worn  it  round  my  neck!  If  I  had 
gone  down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

"  And  you  will  wear  it  stUl,  Walter,  for  my  old  sake?  " 

"Until  I  diet" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  as 
if  not  a  day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the 
little  token  of  remembrance. 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  I  shall  be  always  glad  to  think 
so,  Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a  thought  of  this 
change  seemed  to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time 
that  evening,  when  we  were  talking  together?  " 

"  No! "  he  answered,  in  a  wondering  tone, 

"Yes,  Walter,     I  had  been  the  means  of  injuring 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  289 

your  hopes  and  prospectB  even  then,  I  feared  to  think 
so,  then,  but  I  know  it  now.  If  you  were  able,  then,  in 
your  generosity,  to  hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it  too, 
you  cannot  do  so  now,  although  you  try  as  generously 
as  before.  You  do.  I  thank  you  for  it,  Walter,  deeply, 
truly;  but  you  cannot  succeed.  You  have  suffered  too 
much  in  your  own  hardships,  and  in  those  of  your  dear- 
est relation,  quite  to  overlook  the  innocent  cause  of  all 
the  peril  and  affliction  that  has  befallen  you.  You  can- 
not quite  forget  me  in  that  character,  and  we  can  be 
brother  and  sister  no  longer.  But,  dear  Walter,  do  not 
think  that  I  complain  of  you  in  this.  I  might  have 
known  it — ought  to  have  known  it — but  forgot  it  in  my 
joy.  All  I  hope  is  that  you  may  think  of  me  less  irk- 
somely when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a  secret  one;  and 
all  I  ask  is,  Walter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child  who 
was  your  sister  once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with 
yourself,  and  pain  yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I 
know  all." 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  said  this,  with 
a  face  so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had 
room  for  nothing  else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand 
that  touched  his,  so  entreatingly,  and  held  it  between 
his  own. 

"Oh,  Miss  Dombey,"he  said,  "is  it  possible  that  while 
I  have  been  suffering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my 
sense  of  what  is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to 
you,  I  have  made  you  suffer  what  your  words  disclose 
to  me.  Never,  never,  before  Heaven,  have  I  thought 
of  you  but  as  the  single,  bright,  pure,  blessed  recollec- 
tion of  my  boyhood  and  my  youth.  Never  have  I  from 
the  first,  and  never  shall  I  to  the  last,  regard  your  part 
in  my  life,  but  as  something  sacred,  never  to  be  lightly 
thought  of,  never  to  be  esteemed  enough,  never,  until 
death,  to  be  forgotten.  Again  to  see  you  look,  and  hear 
you  speak,  as  you  did  on  that  night  when  we  parted, 
18  happiness  to  me  that  there  are  no  words  to  utter;  and 
to  be  loved  and  trusted  as  your  brother,  is  the  next  great 
gift  I  could  receive  and  prize! " 

"Walter,"  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly, 
but  with  a  changing  face,  "what  is  that  which  is  due 
to  me,  and  must  oe  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of 
all  this?" 

"Respect,"  saidWalter, in  a  low  tone,    "Rey«K«ttR»." 

19-11 


390  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  color  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and 
thoughtfully  withdrew  her  hand;  still  looking  at  him 
with  unabated  eamestnesB. 

"  I  have  not  a  brother's  right,"  said  Walter.  "  I  have 
not  a  brother's  claim,     I  left  a  child.     I  find  a  woman." 

The  color  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  geetore 
as  if  of  entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her 
face  dropped  upon  her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time;  she  weeping. 

"  I  owe  it  to  a  heart  so  trusting,  pure,  and  good,"  said 
Walter,  "even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I  rend 
my  own.    How  dare  I  say  it  is  my  sister's! " 

She  was  weeping  still. 

"  If  you  had  been  happy;  surrounded  as  vou  should 
be  by  loving  and  adminng  friends,  and  6y  all  that 
makes  the  station  you  were  born  to  enviable,"  said 
Walter,  "and  if  you  had  called  me  brother,  then,  in 
your  affectionate  remembrance  of  the  past,  I  could  have 
answered  to  the  name  from  my  distant  place,  with  no 
inward  assurance  that  I  wronged  your  spotless  truth 
by  doing  so.     But  here— and  now! " — 

"  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you,  Walterl  Foi^ve  my 
having  wronged  you  so  much.  I  had  no  one  to  advise 
me.     I  am  quite  alone." 

"Florence!"  said  Walter,  passionately,  "I  am  hurried 
on  to  say,  what  I  thought,  but  a  few  moments  ago, 
nothing  could  have  forced  from  my  lips.     If  I  had  b^n 

Srosperous;  if  I  had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one 
ay  able  to  restore  you  to  a  station  near  your  own;  I 
would  have  told  you  that  there  was  one  name  you 
might  bestow  upon  me — a  right  above  all  others,  to  pro- 
tect and  cherish  you— that  I  was  worthy  of  in  nothing 
hut  the  love  and  honor  that  I  bore  you,  and  in  my  whole 
heart  being  yours.  I  would  have  told  you  that  it  was  the 
only  claim  that  you  could  give  me  to  defend  and  guard 
you,  which  I  dare  accept  and  dare  assert;  but  that  if  I 
had  that  right,  I  would  regard  it  as  a  trust  so  precious 
and  so  priceless,  that  the  undivided  truth  and  fervor  of 
my  life  would  poorly  acknowledge  its  worth." 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tear^  still  falling, 
and  the  bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs. 

"  Dear  Florence!  dearest  Florence!  whom  I  called  bo 
in  my  thoughts  before  I  could  consider  how  presump- 
tuous and  wild  it  was.    One  last  time  let  me  call  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  291 

by  your  own  dear  name,  and  touch  this  gentle  hand 
in  token  of  your  sisterly  forgetfulness  of  what  I  have 
said." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  with  such  a 
solemn  sweetness  in  her  eyes;  with  such  a  calm,  bright, 
placid  smile  shining  on  him  through  her  tears;  with 
such  alow,  soft  tremble  in  her  frame  and  voice;  that  the 
innermost  chords  of  his  heart  were  touched,  and  his 
sight  was  dim  as  he  listened. 

**  No  Walter,  I  cannot  forget  it.  I  would  not  forget 
it,  for  the  world.     Are  you — are  you  very  poor?" 

"  I  am  but  a  wanderer,"  said  Walter,  "  maJdng  voy- 
ages to  live  across  the  sea.    That  is  my  calling  now." 

' '  Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter?  '^ 

"Very  soon." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment;  then  timidly 
put  her  trembling  hand  in  his. 

"  If  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife,  Walter,  I  will 
love  you  dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Walter, 
I  will  go  to  the  world's  end  without  fear.  I  can  give  up 
nothing  for  you— I  have  nothinc  to  resign,  and  no  one 
to  forsake;  but  all  my  love  and  life  shall  be  devoted  to 
you,  and  with  my  last  breath  I  will  breathe  your  name 
to  God  if  I  have  sense  and  memory  left," 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his  own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn, 
she  wept  indeed,  upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their 
entranced  and  happy  ears!  Blessed  Sunaay  peace  and 
quiet,  harmonising  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and 
making  holy  air  around  them!  Blessed  twilight  steal- 
ing on,  and  shading  her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as 
she  falls  asleep,  like  a  hushed  child,  upon  the  bosom 
she  has  clung  to  I 

Oh  load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  lightly 
there!  Ay,  look  down  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  with 
a  proudly  tender  gaze;  for  in  all  the  wide  wide  world 
they  seek  hut  thee  now — only  thee! 

The  captain  remained  in  the  little  parlor  until  it  was 
quite  dark.  'He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had 
been  sitting,  and  looked  up  at  the  skylight,  until  the 
day,  by  little  and  little,  faded  away,  and  the  stars 
peeped  down.    He  lighted  a  candle,  lighted  a.  v^«v. 


292  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

smoked  it  out,  and  'wondered  what  on  earth  was  going 
on  up-Btairs,  and  wh^  they  didn't  call  him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height 
of  Ws  wonderment. 

"  Ay!  lady  lass! "  cried  the  captain.  "  Why,  you  and 
Wal'r  have  nad  a  long  spell  of  talk,  my  beauty. 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great 
buttons  of  lus  coat,  and  Baid,  looking  down  into  his 
face: 

"  Dear  captain,  I  want  to  tell  you  somethioK,  if  you 
please." 

The  captain  raised  his  head  pretty  smartly,  to  hear 
what  it  was.  Catching  by  this  means  a  more  distinct 
view  of  Florence,  he  pushed  hack  his  chair,  and  himself 
with  it  as  far  as  they  could  go. 

"What!  Heart's  Delight!  "cried  the  captain,  suddenly 
elated.     "Is  it  that?" 

"Yes!  "  said  Florence,  eagerly. 

"Wal'r!  Husband!  That?"  roared  the  captain  toss- 
ing up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  skylight. 

"  Yes! "  cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

The  captain  immediately  hugged  her;  and  then,  pick- 
ing up  the  glazed  hat  and  puttmg  it  on,  drew  her  aim 
through  his,  and  conducted  her  up-stairs  again;  where 
he  felt  that  the  great  joke  of  his  life  vras  now  to  be  made. 

"What,  Wal  r  my  lad!"  said  the  captain,  looking  in 
at  the  door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming-pan. 
"  So  there  ain't  no  other  character,  ain't  there?" 

He  had  like  to  have  suffocated  himself  with  this 
pleasantry,  which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  dur- 
ing tea;  polishing  his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of 
his  coat,  and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket- 
liandkerchief,  in  the  intervals.  But  he  was  not  without 
a  graver  source  of  enjoyment  to  fail  bEu;k  upon,  when 
so  disposed,  for  he  was  repeatedly  heard  to  say  in  an 
under-tone,  as  he  looked  with  ineffable  delight  at  Wai- 
ter and  Florence: 

"Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better 
course  in  your  life  than  when  you  made  that  there  little 
property  over,  jintly!" 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  293 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

HB.  DOHBBY  AND  THE  WORLD. 

What  is  the  proud  man  doing,  while  the  davB  go  by? 
Does  he  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where 
she  is  gone?  Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home,  and 
is  leading  her  old  life  in  tne  weary  house?  No  one  can 
answer  for  him.  He  has  never  uttered  her  name  since. 
His  hooBehold  dread  him  too  much  to  approach  a  sub- 
ject on  which  be  is  resolutely  dumb;  and  the  only  per- 
son who  dare  question  him,  he  silences  immediately. 

"My  dear  Paul!"  murmurs  his  sister,  sidling  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence's  departure,  "your  wife! 
that  upstart  woman!  Is  it  possible  that  what  I  hear 
confusedly,  is  true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your 
unparalleled  devotion  to  her;  extending,  I  am  sure,  even 
to  the  sacrifice  of  your  own  relations,  to  her  caprices 
and  haughtiness?    My  poor  brother!" 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not 
having  been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first 

Earty,  Mrs,  Chick  makes  great  use  of  her  pockef-hand- 
ercnief,  and  falls  on  Mr.  Dombey's  neclt.  But  Mr. 
Dombey  frigidly  lifts  her  off,  and  hands  her  to  a  chair. 

"I  thank  you,  Louisa,"  he  says,  "for  this  mark  of 
your  affection;  but  desire  th;it  our  conversation  may 
refer  to  any  other  subject.  When  I  bewail  my  fate, 
Louisa,  or  express  myself  as  being  in  want  of  consola- 
tion, you  can  offer  it,  if  you  will  have  the  goodness." 

"My  dear  Paul,"  rejoins  his  sister,  with  Tier  handker- 
chief to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  "  I  know  your 
great  spirit,  and  will  say  no  more  upon  a  theme  so  pain- 
ful ana  revolting; "  on  the  heads  of  which  two  adjec- 
tives, Mrs.  Chick  visits  scathing  indignation;  "  but  pray 
let  me  ask  you — though  I  dread  to  hear  something  that 
will  shock  and  distress  me — that  unfortunate  child 
Florence — " 

"  Louisal"  says  her  brother,  sternly,  "silence.  Not 
another  word  or  this! " 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her 
handkerchief,  and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys, 
who  are  no  Dombej^s.  But  whether  Florence  has  been 
inculpated  in  the  flight  of  Edith,  or  haa  loWo^eiVfet ,  *« 


394  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

has  done  too  much,  or  too  little,  or  anything,  or  nothing, 
she  has  not  the  least  idea. 

He  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  impaning 
them  to  no  one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter. 
He  may  fliink  that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is 
under  nis  own  roof.  He  may  think  of  her  constantly, 
or  he  may  never  think  about  her.  It  is  all  one  for  any 
si^  he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure;  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost  her. 
He  has  DO  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived  too  long 
Khut  up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her,  a  patient 
gentle  creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have  any  fear 
of  that.  Shaken  as  he  is  by  his  disgrace,  he  is  not  yet 
humbled  to  the  level  earth.  The  root  is  broad  and  deep, 
and  in  the  course  of  years  its  fibres  have  spread  out  and 
gathered  nourishment  from  everything  around  it.  The 
tree  is  struck,  but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the  world 
without— which  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose  for  the 
time,  and  that  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever  he  goes 
^he  cannot  hide  those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which  escape 
in  hollow  eyes  and  cheeks,  a  haggard  forehead,  and  a 
moody,  brooding  air.  Impenetrable  as  before,  he  is 
still  an  altered  man;  and.  proud  as  ever,  he  is  humbled, 
or  those  marks  would  not  be  there. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it 
looks  at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says — this 
is  the  haunting  demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  everywhere 
where  he  is;  and,  worse  than  that,  it  is  everywhere 
where  he  is  not.  It  comes  out  with  him  among  his 
servants,  and  yet  he  leaves  it  whispering  behind;  he 
sees  it  pointing  after  him  in  the  street;  it  is  waiting  for 
liim  in  nis  counting-house:  it  leers  over  the  shoulders  of 
rich  men  among  the  merchants;  it  goes  beckoning  and 
babbhng  among  the  crowd;  it  always  anticipates  him, 
in  every  place;  and  is  always  busiest,  he  knows,  when 
he  has  gone  away.  When  ne  is  shut  up  in  his  room  at 
night,  it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  footsteps 
on  the  pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steam- 
ing to  and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships;  restless  and 
busy  everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active 
in  other  people's  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Feenix, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  895 

■who  comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk  to  him. 
Witness  Major  BaestGck,  who  accompanies  Consip 
Feenix  on  that  friendly  mission. 

Mr.  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity, 
and  stands  erect,  in  his  old  attitude,  before  the  fire.  He 
feels  that  the  world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes. 
That  it  is  in  the  stare  of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt, 
upon  the  book -case,  represents  it.  That  there  are  eyes 
in  its  own  map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 

"An  unusually  cold  spring,"  says  Mr.  Dombey — to 
deceive  the  world. 

"Damme,  sir,"  says  the  major,  in  the  warmth  of 
friendship,  "  Joseph  Bagstock  is  a  bad  hand  at  a  coun- 
terfeit. If  you  want  to  hold  your  friends  off,  Dombey, 
and  to  give  them  the  cold  shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man 
for  vour  purpose.  Joe  is  rough  and  tough,  sir;  blunt, 
Bir,  olunt,  is  Joe.  Hie  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  did  me  the  honor  to  say,  <^servedly  or  undeserv- 
edly—never mind  that — '  If  there  is  a  man  in  the  service 
on  whom  I  can  depend  for  coming  to  the  point,  that 
man  is  Joe — Joe  Bagstock.' " 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  hie  acquiescence. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  a  man  of  the 
world.     Our  friend  Feenix — if  I  may  presume  to — " 

"Honored,  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousm  Feenix. 

" — is,"  proceeds  the  major,  with  a  wag  of  his  head, 
"also  a  man  of  the  world.  Dombey,  you  are  a  man 
of  the  world.  Now,  when  three  men  of  the  world  meet 
together,  and  are  friends — as  I  believe — "  again  appeal- 
ing to  Cousin  Feenii, 

"I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "most  friendly." 

" — and  are  friends,"  resumes  the  major,  "Old  Joe's 
opinion  is  {J.  may  be  wrong),  that  the  opinion  of  tho 
world  on  any  particular  subject  is  very  easily  got  at." 

" Undoubtedly,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "In  point  of 
fact,  it's  quite  a  self-evident  sort  of  thing.  lam  ex- 
tremely anxious,  major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  shoiJld 
hear  me  express  my  very  great  astonishment  and  regret, 
that  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  who  was 
possessed  of  every  qualification  to  make  a  man  happy, 
should  have  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to— in  point 
of  fact,  to  the  world— as  to  commit  herself  in  such  a  . 
very  extraordinary  manner,  I  have  been  in  a  devilish 
state  of  depression  ever  sincej  and  ftwd  \a4sft^V>"V*swt 


296  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Sazby  last  night — man  of  six  foot  ten,  with  whom  my 
friend  Dombey  is  probably  acquainted — that  it  had  up- 
set me  in  a  confounded  way,  and  made  me  bilious.  It 
induces  a  man  to  reilect,  this  kind  of  fatal  catastrophe," 
says  Cousin  Feenix,  "that  events  do  occur  in  quite  a 
Providential  manner;  for  if  my  aunt  had  been  livmg  at 
the  time,  I  think  the  effect  upon  a  devilish  lively  woman 
like  herself,  would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she 
would  have  fallen,  in  point  of  fact,  a  victim." 

"  Now,  Dombey! — "  says  the  major,  resuming:  his  dis- 
course with  great  energy, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposes  Cousin  Feenii. 
"  Allow  me  another  word.  My  friend  Dombey  will  per- 
mit me  to  say,  that  if  any  circumstance  could  have 
added  to  the  most  infernal  state  of  pain  in  which  I  6nd 
myself  on  this  occasion,  it  would  be  the  natural  amaze- 
ment of  the  world  at  my  lovely  and  accomplished  rela- 
tive (as  I  must  still  beg  leave  to  call  ber)  being  supposed 
to  have  80  committed  nereelf  with  a  person — man  with 
white  teeth,  in  point  of  fact — of  very  inferior  station  to 
her  husband.  But  while  I  must,  rather  peremptorilv, 
request  my  friend  Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  until  her  criminality  is  per- 
fectly established,  I  beg  to  Etssure  my  friend  Dombey 
that  the  family  I  represent,  and  which  is  now  almost 
extinct  {devilish  sad  reflection  for  a  man),  will  interpose 
no  obstacle  in  his  way,  and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to 
any  honorable  course  of  proceeding,  with  a  view  to  the 
future,  that  he  may  point  out.  I  trust  my  friend  Dom- 
bey will  give  me  credit  for  the  intentions  by  which  I 
am  animated  in  this  very  melancholy  affair,  and — a — in 
point  of  fact,  I  am  not  aware  that  I  need  trouble  my 
friend  Dombey  with  any  further  observations." 

Mr.  Dombey  bows,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  ia 
silent. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  our  friend  Feeoix 
having,  with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  old  Joe  B. 
has  never  heard  surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  sir!  never!" 
— Bays  the  ma^or,  very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasping  his 
cane  in  the  middle^"  stated  the  case  as  regards  the 
lady,  I  shall  presume  upon  our  friendship,  Dombey,  to 
oflFer  a  word  on  another  aspect  of  it.  Sir,"  says  the  major, 
with  the  horse's  cough,  "  the  world  in  these  things  has 
opinions,  which  roust  be  satisfied," 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  297 

"I  know  it,"  rejoins  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,"  says  the  major. 
"  Damme,  bit,  I  know  you  know  it.  A  man  of  your 
calibre  is  not  litely  to  be  ignorant  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replies  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  Dombey!"  says  the  major,  "  you  will  guess  the  rest. 
I  speak  out — prematurely,  perhaps — because  the  Bag- 
stock  breed  have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  air,  have 
they  ever  got  by  doing  it;  but  it's  in  the  Bacstock  blood. 
A  shot  is  to  be  taken  at  this  man.  You  have  J.  B.  at 
your  elbow.  He  claims  the  name  of  friend.  Qod  bless 
you! " 

"Major,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  am  obliged.  I 
shall  put  myself  in  your  hands  when  the  time  comes. 
The  time  not  being  come,  I  have  forborne  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey?  "  inquires  the  major, 
after  gasping  and  looking  at  him,  for  a  minute. 

"I  aont  know." 

"  Any  intelligence  of  him?  "  asks  the  major. 

"  Yes." 

"  Dombey,'!  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  says  the  major. 
"  I  congratulate  you." 

"  You  will  excuse— even  you,  major,"  replies  Mr, 
Dombey,  "  my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  pres- 
ent, llie  intelligence  is  of  a  singular  kind,  and  singu- 
larly obtained.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  valueless;  it  may 
turn  out  to  be  true;  I  cannot  say  at  present.  My  expla- 
nation must  stop  here." 

Although  this  is  but  a  dry  reply  to  the  major's  purple 
enthusiasm,  the  major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  de- 
lighted to  think  that  the  world  has  such  a  fair  prospect 
of  soon  receiving  its  due.  Cousin  Feenix  is  then  pre- 
sented with  his  meed  of  acknowledgment  by  the  hus- 
band of  his  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  and 
Cousin  Feenix  and  Major  Bagstock  retire,  leaving  that 
husband  to  the  world  again,  and  to  ponder  at  leisure  on 
their  representation  of  its  state  of  mind  concerning  his 
affairs,  and  on  its  just  and  reasonable  expectations. 

But  who  sits  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  shedding 
tears,  and  talking  to  Mrs,  Pipchin  in  a  low  tone,  w^itn 
uplifted  hands?  It  is  a  lady  with  her  face  concealed  in 
a  very  close  black  bonnet,  which  appears  not  to  belong 
to  her.     It  is  Miss  Tox,  who  has  borrowed  \.Yab  dA&^gcfWA 


998  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

from  her  servant,  and  comes  from  Princess's-place,  thus 
secretly,'  to  revive  her  old  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  in  order  to  get  certain  information  of  the  Btate  of 
Mr,  Dombey. 

"  How  does  he  bear  it,  my  dear  creature?"  asks  Miss 
Tox. 

"  Well,"  says  Mrs.  PJpchin,  in  her  snappish  way, 
"  he"8  pretty  much  as  usual." 

"ExtemEuIy,"  suggests  Miss  Tox.  "But  what  he 
feels  within! 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  hard  grey  eye  looks  doubtful  as  she 
answers  in  three  distinct  jerks,  "Ah!  Perhaps.  I  sup- 
pose so," 

"  To  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,"  says  Mrs,  Pipchin; 
she  still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having 
made  hep  first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling-line  of 
business  on  that  lady  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazen 
little  girl  of  tender  years;  *'  to  tell  you  my  mind, Lucre- 
tia, I  think  it's  a  good  riddance.  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  brazen  faces  nere,  myself!" 

"Brazen  indeed!  Well  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs. 
Pipchin!"  returns  Miss  Tox.  "To  leave  him!  Such  a 
noble  figure  of  a  man!"  And  here  Miss  Tox  is  over- 
come. 

"I  don't  know  about  noble,  I'm  sure,"  observes  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  "But  I  know  this 
— that  when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  bear 
'em.  Hoity,  toity!  I  have  had  enough  to  bear  myself 
in  my  time!  Wnat  a  fuss  there  is!  She's  gone,  and 
well  got  rid  of.  Nobody  wants  her  back,  I  should 
thinkf" 

This  hint  of  the  Peruvian  Mines  causes  Miss  Tox  to 
rise  to  go  away;  when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell  for 
Towlinson  to  show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not  having 
seen  Miss  Tox  for  ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she's  well; 
observing  that  he  didn't  know  her  at  first  in  that  bonnet 

"  Pretty  well,.  Towlinson,  I  thank  you,"  says  Miss 
Tox.  "  I  beg  you'll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  hap- 
pen to  see  me  here,  not  to  mention  it.  My  visits  are 
merely  to  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  Very  good,  nuss,"  says  Towlinson. 

"  Shockmg  circumstances  occur,  Towlinson,"  says 
Miss  Tox. 

"  Very  much  so  indeed,  miss,"  rejoins  Towlinson. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  399 

"  I  hope,  TowHnson,"  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  in- 
Btruction  of  the  Toodle  family,  has  acquired  an  admoni- 
torial  tone,  and  a  habit  of  improving  passing  occasions, 
"  that  what  has  happened  here  will  be  a  warning  to 
you,  Towlinson," 

"  Thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  says  Towlinson. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a  consideration  of  the 
manner  in  which  this  w&ming  ought  to  operate  in  his 

§  articular  case,  when  the  vinegaiT  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sud- 
enly  stirring  him  up  with  a  "What  are  you  doing! 
Why  don't  you  show  the  lady  to  the  door! "  ho  ushers 
Miss  Tox  forth.  As  she  passes  Mr.  Dombey's  room,  she 
shrinks  into  the  inmost  depths  of  the  black  bonnet,  and 
walks  on  tiptoe;  and  there  is  not  another  atom  in  the 
world  which  haunts  him  so,  that  feels  such  sorrow  and 
solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox  takes  out  under  the 
black  bonnet  into  the  street,  and  tries  to  carry  home 
shadowed  from  the  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss-  Tox  is  not  a  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  world. 
She  comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk;  adding  clogs 
and  an  umbrella  to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights;  and  bears 
the  grina  of  Towlinson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  all  to  ask  how  he  does,  and  how  he 
bears  his  misfortune:  but  she  has  nothing  to  do  with 
Mr.  Dombey's  world.  Exacting  and  harassing  as  ever, 
it  goes  on  without  her;  and  she,  a  by  no  means  bright 
or  particular  star,  moves  in  her  little  orbit  in  the  corner 
of  another  system,  and  knows  it  quite  well,  and  comes, 
and  cries,  and  goea  away,  and  is  satisfied.  Verily  Miss 
Tox  is  easier  of  satisfaction  than  the  world  that  troubles 
Mr,  Dombey  so  much! 

At  the  counting-house,  the  clerks  discuss  the  great 
disaster  in  all  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wonder 
who  will  get  Mr.  Carker'a  place.  They  are  generally  of 
opinion  that  it  will  be  shorn  of  some  of  its  emoluments, 
and  made  uncomfortable  by  newly  devised  checks  and 
restrictions;  and  those  who  are  beyond  all  hope  of  it, 
are  quite  sure  they  would  rather  not  have  it,  and  don't 
at  all  envy  the  person  for  whom  it  may  prove  to  be  re- 
served. Nothing  like  the  prevailing  sensation  h^ 
existed  in  the  counting-house  since  Mr.  Dombey's  little 
eon  died;  but  all  such  excitements  there  take  a  social, 
not  to  say  jovial  turn,  and  lead  to  the  cultivation  of 
good  fellowship.    A  reconciliation  is  eataVASaVei  ow ^^coc*. 


-too  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pmiiitious  occasion  between  the  acknowledged  wit  of 
tlm  CHunting-house  and  an  aspiriue  rival,  with  whom 
he  has  been  at  deadly  feud  for  months;  and  u  little  din- 
ner being  proposed,  in  commemoration  of  their  happily 
restored  aniit^,  takes  place  at  a  neighboring  tavern;  the 
wit  in  the  chair;  the  nval  acting  as  Vice-President.  The 
orations  following  the  removal  of  the  cloth  are  opened 
by  the  chair,  who  says,  gentlemen,  he  can't  disguise 
from  himself  that  this  is  not  a  time  for  private  dissen- 
sions. Recent  occurrences  to  which  he  need  not  more 
particularly  allude,  but  which  have  not  been  altogether 
without  notice  in  some  Sunday  papers,  and  in  a  daily 
paper  which  he  need  not  name  (here  every  other  mem- 
ber of  the  company  names  it  in  an  audible  munnur) 
have  caused  him  to  reflect;  and  he  feels  that  for  him 
and  Robinson  to  have  any  personal  ditfereuces  at  such 
a  moment,  would  be  for  ever  to  deny  that  good  feeling 
in  the  general  cause  for  which  he  nas  reason  to  think 
and  hope  that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey's  House  have 
always  been  distinguished,  Robinson  replies  to  this 
like  a  man  and  a  brother;  and  one  gentleman  who  hae 
been  in  the  office  three  years,  under  continual  notice  to 
quit  on  account  of  lapses  in  bis  arithmetic,  appears  in  a 
perfectly  new  light,  suddenly  bursting  out  in  a  thrilling 
speech,  in  which  he  says,  May  their  respected  chirf 
never  again  know  the  desolation  which  has  fallen  on 
his  hearth!  and  says  a  great  variety  of  things,  begin- 
ning with  "May  he  never  again,"  which  are  received 
with  thunders  of  applause.  In  short,  a  most  delightful 
evening  is  passed,  only  interrupted  by  a  difference  be- 
tween two  juniors,  who,  quarrelling  about  the  probable 
amount  of  Mr.  Carker's  fate  receipts  per  annum,  defy 
each  other  with  decanters,  and  are  taken  out  greatly 
excited.  Soda  water  is  in  general  request  at  the  office 
next  day,  and  most  of  the  party  deem  the  bill  an 
imposition. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of 
being  ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again,  con- 
stantly in  bars  of  public  houses,  being  treated  and 
lying  dreadfully.  It  appears  that  he  met  everybody 
concerned  in  the  late  transaction,  everywhere,  and  said 
to  them,  "Sir,"  or  "Madam,"  as  the  case  was,  "why 
do  you  look  so  pale?"  at  which  each  shuddered  from 
head  to  foot,  and  said,  "Oh,  Perch!"  and  ran  away. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  301 

Either  the  consciousnesB  of  these  enormities,  or  the  re- 
action consequent  on  liquor,  reduces  Mr.  Perch*t0  an 
extreme  etate  of  low  spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening 
when  he  usually  seeks  consolation  in  the  society  of 
Mrs.  Perch  at  Balls  Pond;  and  Mrs.  Perch  frets  a  good 
deal,  for  she  fears  his  confidence  in  woman  is  shaken 
now,  and  that  he  half  expects  on  coming  home  at  night 
to  find  her  gone  off  with  some  Viscount. 

Mr,  Domoey's  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same 
time,  quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  They 
have  hot  suppers  every  night,  and  "talk  it  over"  with 
smoking  dnnits  upon  the  board,  Mr,  Towlinson  is 
always  maudlin  after  half-past  ten,  and  frequently  begs 
to  know  whether  he  didn't  say  that  no  good  would  ever 
come  of  living  in  a  corner  house  i"  They  whisper  ahuut 
Miss  Florence,  and  wonder  where  she  is:  but  agree  that 
if  Mr,  Dombey  don't  know,  Mrs,  Dombey  does.  This 
brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom  the  cook  says,  she 
had  a  stately  way  though,  hadn't  she?  But  she  was 
too  highl  They  all  agree  she  waa  too  high,  and  Mr. 
TowlinBon's  old  flame  the  housemaid  (who  ia  very  vir- 
tuous), entreats  that  you  will  never  talk  to  her  any 
more  about  people  who  holds  their  heads  up,  as  if  the 
ground  wjisn't  good  enough  for  'em. 

Everything  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by 
Mr,  Dombey,  is  done  in  chonis.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the 
world  are  alone  together. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SECRET  INTELLIOBNCB. 

QooD  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice  kept  silent 
company  together  in  their  own  dwelling^.  It  was  early  ' 
in  the  evening,  and  late  in  the  spring.  But  a  few  days 
had  elapsed  smce  Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major  Bagstock 
of  his  smgular  intelligence,  singularly  obtained,  which 
might  turn  out  to  be  valueless,  and  might  turn  out  to 
be  true;  and  the  world  was  not  satisfied  yet. 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  w\tt!v<ivi. 


302  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

interchan^ng  a  word;  almost  without  motion.  Theolil 
woman's  mce  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant;  thai 
of  her  daughter  Was  expectant  too,  but  in  a  less  sharp 
degree,  and  sometimes  it  darkened,  as  if  with  gatherinf; 
disappointment  and  incredulity.  The  old  woman,  with- 
out heeding  these  changes  in  its  expression,  though  her 
eyes  were  often  turned  towards  it,  sat  mumbliog  and 
munching,  and  listening  confidently. 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  was  not  so 
utterly  wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  Good  Mm. 
Brown  inhabited  it.  Some  few  attempts  at  cleanlinesE 
and  order  were  manifest,  though  made  in  a  recklese. 
gipsy  way,  that  might  have  connected  them,  at  a  glance, 
with  the  younger  woman.  The  shades  of  evening 
thickened  and  deepened  as  the  two  kept  silence,  until 
the  blackened  walls  were  nearly  lost  in  the  prevailing 
gloom. 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so  long, 
and  said: 

"Toumaygivehim  up,  mother.    He'll  not  come  here.'" 

"  Death  give  him  up!  returned  the  old  woman,  impa- 
tiently.    "  He  will  come  here," 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Alice. 

"  We  shall  see  him,"  returned  her  mother. 

"  And  doomsday,"  said  the  daughter. 

"You  think  I'm  in  my  secontf  childhood,  I  know," 
croaked  the  old  woman,  "That's  the  respect  and  duty 
that  I  get  from  my  own  gal,  but  I'm  wiser  than  you  take 
me  for.  He'll  come.  Tether  day  when  I  touched  his 
coat  in  the  street  he  looked  round  as  if  I  was  a  toad. 
But  Lord,  to  see  him  when  I  said  their  names,  and  asked 
him  if  he'd  like  to  find  out  where  they  was!" 

"  Was  it  BO  angry? "  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to  in- 
terest in  a  moment. 

' '  Angry  ?    Ask  if  it  was  bloody.     That's  more  like  the 


word.     Anpry?    Ha,    hal     To   call   that  only  angry 
said  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  and  light- 
ing a   candle,   which  displayed  the   workings   of   nei 


mouth  to  ugly  advantage  as  she  brought  it  to  the  table. 
"  I  might  as  well  call  your  face  only  angry,  when  you 
think  or  talk  about  'em." 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat 
as  still  as  a  crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindhng  eyes. 

"  Hark! "  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.     "  I  hear 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  303 

a  step  coming.  It's  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that  lives 
about  here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don't  walk 
like  that.  We  should  grow  proud  on  such  neighborsl 
Do  you  hear  him?  " 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  mother,"  replied  Alice  in  alow 
voice,     "Peace!  open  the  door."  • 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl  and  gathered 
it  about  her,  the  old  woman  complied;  and  peering  out 
and  beckoning,  gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
stopped  when  lie  bad  set  his  foot  within  the  door,  and 
looked  distrustfully  around. 

"It's  a  poor  place  for  a  great  gentleman  like  your 
worship,"  said  the  old  woman,  ciirtseying  and  chatter- 
ing.    "  I  told  you  so,  but  there's  no  harm  m  it." 
■  "Who  is  that? "asked  Mr.   Dombey,  looking  at  her 
companion. 

"  That  is  ray  handsome  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  Your  worship  won't  mind  her.    She  knows  all  about  it. " 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than 
if  he  had  groaned  aloud,  "  Who  does  not  know  all  about 
it?  "  but  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she  without  any 
acknowledgment  of  his  presence,  looked  at  him.  The 
shadow  on  his  face  was  darker  when  he  turned  his 
glance  away  from  her-  and  even  then  it  wandered  back 
again,  furtively,  as  if  he  were  haunted  by  her  bold  eyes, 
and  some  resemblance  they  inspired. 

"  Woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who  was 
chuckling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and  who,  when 
he  turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily  at  her 
daughter,  and  rubbed  her  hands  and  pointed  again, 
"  Woman!  I  believe  that  I  am  weak  and  forgetful  of  my 
station  in  comiug  here,  but  you  know  why  I  come,  and 
what  you  offered  when  you  stopped  me  in  the  street  the 
other  day.  What  is  it  that  you  nave  to  tell  me  concern- 
ing what  I  want  to  know;  and  how  does  it  happen  that 
I  can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a  hovel  like  this," 
with  a  disdainful  glance  about  him,  "  when  I  have  ex- 
erted my  power  and  means  to  obtain  it  in  vain?  I  do 
not  thinK,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during  which 
he  observed  her  sternly,  "that  you  are  so  audacious  as 
to  mean  to  trifle  with  me,  or  endeavor  to  impose  upon 
me.  But  if  yon  have  that  purpose  you  had  better  stop 
on  the  threshold  of  your  scheme.  My  humor  is  not  a 
trifling  one,  and  my  acknowledgment  will  he  severe." 


304  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Oh  a  proud,  hard  gentleman!"  chuckled  the  old  wo- 
man, shaking  her  head,  and  nihbing  her  shriTelled 
hands,  '*oh  hard,  hard,  hard!  But  your  worship  shall 
Bee  with  your  own  eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears; 
not  with  ours — and  if  your  worship's  put  upon  their 
track,  you  won't  mind  paying  something  for  it,  will 
you,  honorable  deary?" 

"Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved, 
and  re-assured  by  this  inquiry,  "will  bring  about  un- 
likely things,  I  know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  un- 
expected and  unpromising  as  these,  to  account.  Yes. 
For  any  reliable  mformatioii  I  receive,  I  will  pay.  But 
I  must  have  the  information  first,  and  judge  tor  myself 
of  its  value." 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money?" 
asked  the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering 
her  attitude. 

"  Not  here,  I  should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"You  should  know  of  something  that  is  more  power- 
ful elsewhere,  as  I  judge,"  she  returned.  "Do  you 
know  nothing  of  a  woman's  anger?  " 

"  You  have  a  saucy  tongue,  jade,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"Not  usually,"  she  answered,  without  any  show  of 
emotion:  "I  speak  to  you  now,  that  you  may  under- 
stand us  better,  and  rely  more  on  us.  A  woman's  anger 
is  pretty  much  the  same  here  as  in  your  fine  house.  / 
am  angry.  I  have  been  so  many  years.  I  have  as 
good  cause  for  my  anger  as  you  have  for  yours,  and  its 
object  is  the  same  man." 

He  started,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her 
with  astonishment. 

"Yes."  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  laugh.  "Wide  as 
the  distance  may  seem  between  us,  it  is  so.  How  it  ie 
so,  is  no  matter;  that  is  my  story,  and  I  keep  my  story 
to  myself.  I  would  bring  you  and  him  tf^ether,  be- 
cause I  have  a  rage  against  him.  JHy  mother  there,  is 
avaricious  and  poor;  and  she  would  sell  any  tidings  she 
could  glean,  or  anything,  or  anybody,  for  money.  It  is 
fair  enough,  perhaps,  that  you  should  pay  her  some,  if 
she  can  help  you  to  what  you  want  to  know.  But  that 
is  not  my  motive.  I  have  told  you  what  mine  is,  and  it 
would  be  as  strong  and  all  sufficient  with  me  if  you 
haggled  and  bargained  with  her  for  a  sixpence.    I  have 


DOMBEY.  AND  SOK.  305 

done.  My  saucy  tongue  says  no  more,  if  you  wait  here 
till  sunrise  to-morrow," 

The  old  woman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  dur- 
ing this  speech  which  had  a  tendency  to  depreciate  her 
expected  gains,  pulled  Mr.  Dombey  softly  by  the  sleeve, 
and  whispered  to  him  not  to  mind.  her.  He  glanced  at 
them  botn,  by  turns,  with  a  haggard  look,  and  said,  in 
a  deeper  voice  than  was  usual  with  him: 

"  Gk)  on— what  do  you  know? " 

"Oh,  not  so  fast,  your  worship!  we  must  wait  for 
some  one,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "  It's  to  be  got 
from  some  one  else — wormed  out— screwed  and  twisted 
from  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 

"  Patience,"  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a 
claw,  upon  his  arm.  "  Patience.  I'll  get  at  it.  I  know 
I  can.  If  he  was  to  hold  it  back  from  me,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  crooking  her  ten  fingers,  "I'd  tear  it  out 
of  him!" 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hob- 
bled to  the  door,  and  looked  out  again:  and  then  his 
glance  sought  her  daughter;  but  she  remained  impas- 
sive, silent,  and  regardless  of  him, 

"Do  you  tell  me,  woman,"  he  said,  when  the  bent 
figure  of  Mrs.  Brown  came  hack,  shaking  its  head  and 
chattering  to  itself,  "that  there  is  another  person  ex- 
pected here  ? " 

"Yes!"  said  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  fare, 
and  nodding. 

"  From  whom  you  are  to  extract  the  intelligence  that 
is  to  be  useful  to  me?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman  nodding  again. 

"A  stranger?" 

"Chut!"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  shrill  laugh. 
"  What  sigTiifies!  Well,  well;  no.  No  stranger  to  your 
worship.  But  he  won't  see  you.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you, 
and  wouldn't  talk.  You'll  stand  behind  that  door,  and 
judge  him  for  yourself.  We  don't  ask  to  be  believed  on 
trust.  What!  Your  worship  doubts  the  room  behind 
the  door?  Oh  the  suspicion  of  you  rich  gentlefolksl 
Look  at  it,  then." 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expression 
of  this  feeltag  on  bis  part,  which  was  not  unreasonable 
under  the  circumstances.    In  satisfaction  of  it  ste  wq-^  , 


306  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

took  the  candle  to  the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr.  Dombev 
looked  in;  assured  himself  that  it  was  an  empty,  crazy 
room;  and  signed  to  her  to  put  the  lig:ht  back  in  ite 
place. 

"How  long,"  he  asked,  " before  this  person  comes?" 

"Not  long, '  she  answered.  "Would  your  worship  sit 
down  for  a  few  odd  minutes?" 

He  made  no  answer;  but  began  pacing  the  room  with 
an  irresolute  air,  as  if  be  were  undecided  w^hetber  to 
remain  or  depart,  and  as  if  he  bad  some  quarrel  with 
himself  for  being  there  at  all.  But  soon  his  tread  grew 
slower  and  heavier,  and  his  face  more  sternly  thought- 
ful;.as  the  object  with  which  he  bad  come  fixed  itself 
in  his  mind,  and  dilated  there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  tbe  chair  from  which  she 
had  risen  to  receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  mo- 
notony of  his  step,  or  the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her 
so  slow  of  hearing,  that  a  footfall  without  had  sounded 
in  her  daughter's  ears  for  some  moments,  and  she  had 
looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her  mother  of  its  approach, 
before  tbe  old  woman  was  roused  by  it.  But  then  she 
started  from  her  seat,  and  whispenng  "Here  he  is!" 
hurried  her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observation,  and  put 
a  bottle  and  glass  upon  the  table,  with  such  alacrity  as 
to  be  ready  to  fling  her  arms  round  tbe  neck  of  Rob  tbe 
Grinder  on  his  appearance  at  tbe  door. 

"And  here's  my  bonny  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  "at 
last! — oho,  oho!    You're  like  my  own  son,  Robbv!" 

"  Oh!  Misses  Brown! "  remonstrated  the  Grinder. 
"  Don't.  Can't  you  be  fond  of  a  cove  without  squeedg- 
ing  and  throttling  of  him!  Take  care  of  the  bird-cage 
in  my  hand,  will  you?" 

"'Thinks  of  a  oird-cage,  afore  mel"  cried  the  old 
woman,  apostrophising  the  ceiling.  "Me  that  feels 
more  than  a  mother  for  him!" 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Misses 
Brown,"  said  the  unfortunate  youth,  greatly  a^rtk- 
vated;  "  but  you're  so  jealous  of  a  cove.  Fm  very  fond 
of  you  myself,  and  all  that,  of  course;  but  I  don't 
smother  you,  do  I,  Misses  Brown?" 

He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  be  would  have  been  far 
from  objecting  to  do  so,  however,  on  a  favorable 
occasion. 

Digiiizcdt*  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  :»r 

"And  to  talk  about  bird-cages  too!"  whimpered  the 
Grinder.  "As  if  that  was  a  crime!  Why,  look'ee  here! 
Do  you  know  who  this  belongs  to?  " 

"To  Master,  dear?"  said  the  old  woman  with  a  grin. 

"Ah! "replied  the  Grinder,  lifting  a  large  cage  tied 
up  in  a  wrapper,  on  the  table,  and  untying  it  with  his 
teeth  and  hands.     "It's  our  parrot,  this  is. 

"  Mr,  Carker's  parrot,  Rob?" 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown ! "  returned 
the  goaded  Grinder,  "  Wnat  do  you  ^o  naming  names 
for?  I'm  blest,"  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with  both 
hands  in  the  exasperation  of  his  feelings,  "if  she  an't 
enough  to  make  a  cove  run  wild!" 

"Whatl  Do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy!"  cried  thw 
old  woman,  with  ready  vehemence, 

"Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  no!"  returned  the 
Grinder,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "Was  there  ever  such 
a! — Don't  I  dote  upon  you,  Misses  Brown?" 

"Do  you,  sweet  Rob?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy?" 
With  that,  Mrs.  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace 
once  more;  and  did  not  release  him  until  he  had  made 
several  violent  and  ineffectual  struggles  with  his  legs, 
and  his  hair  was  standing  on  end  all  over  his  head. 

"OhI"  returned  the  Grinder,  "what  a  thing  it  is  to 
be  perfectly  pitched  into  with  affection  like  tnis  here. 
I  wish  she  was —   How  have  you  been,  Misses  Brown?" 

"Ah!  Not  here  since  this  night  week!"  said  the  old 
woman,  contemplating  him  witn  a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder, 
"  I  said  to-night's  a  week,  that  I'd  come  to-night,  didn't 
I?  And  here  I  am.  How  you  do  go  on!  I  wish  you'd 
be  a  little  rational,  Misses  Brown.  I'm  hoarse  with  say- 
ing things  in  my  defence,  and  mv  very  face  is  shiny 
with  being  hugged."  He  rubbed  it  hard  with  his  sleeve, 
as  if  to  remove  the  tender  polish  in  question, 

"Drink  a  little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin," said 
the  old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  tne  bottle  and 
giving  it  to  him. 

"Thank'ee,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
"  Here's  your  health.  And  long  may  vou — et  cetrer." 
Which  to  judge  from  the  expression  of  nis  face,  did  not 
include  an^  very  choice  blessings.  "  And  here's  her 
health,"  said  the  Grinder,  glancing  at  Alice,  who  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  oa  ^t  -v«& 


30S     '  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dombey's  face  at  the 
door,  "  and  wishinc;  her  the  same  and  many  of  'em!" 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set 
it  down. 

"  Well,  I  sav,  Misses  Brown! "  he  proceeded.  "  To  go 
on  a  little  rational  now.  You're  a  judge  of  birds,  and 
up  to  their  ways,  as  I  know  to  my  cost. 

"Cost! "  repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Satisfaction,  I  mean,"  returned  the  Grinder.  "  How 
you  do  take  up  a  cove.  Misses  Brown!  You've  put  it 
all  out  of  my  head  again." 

"  Judge  of  birds,  Robby,"  suggested  the  old  woman. 

"Ah!  said  the  Grinder,  "Weil,  I've  got  to  take  care 
of  this  parrot — certain  things  being  sold,  and  a  certain 
establishment  broke  up — and  as  I  don't  want  no  notice 
toot  at  present,  I  wish  you'd  attend  to  her  for  a  week 
or  so,  and  give  her  board  and  lodging,  will  you?  If  I 
jnust  come  backwards  and  forwards,"  mused  the 
Grinder  with  a  dejected  face,  "I  may  as  well  have 
something  to  come  for." 

"  Something  to  come  for?"  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"  Besides  you,  I  mean.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
craven  Rob.  "  Not  that  I  want  any  inducement  hut 
yourself.  Misses  Brown,  I'm  sure.  Don't  begin  again, 
for  goodness  sake." 

"He  don't  care  for  me!  He  don't  care  forme,  as  I 
care  for  him! "  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinnr 
hands.     "  But  I'll  take  care  of  his  bird." 

"  Take  good  care  of  it  too,  you  know.  Misses  Brown," 
said  Rob,  shaking  his  head.  "If  you  wiis  so  much  aa 
to  stroke  its  feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I  believe 
it  would  be  found  out." 

"Ah,  60  sharp  as  that,  Rob?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  quickly. 

"  Sharp,  Misses  Brown! "  repeated  Rob.  "  But  this  is 
not  to  be  talked  about." 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a  fearful 

glance  across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and 
aving  slowly  emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to 
draw  his  fingers  across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  par- 
rot's cage,  by  way  of  a  diversion  from  the  dangerous 
theme  that  had  just  been  broached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slily,  and  hitching  her  chair 
nearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the  parrot,  who  came 
down  from  the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said: 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ,  309 

"Out  of  place  now,  Robby?" 

"Never  you  mind,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder,  shortly, 

"  Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob?"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Prettv  Polly! "  said  the  Grinder. 

The  old  woman  darted  a  glance  at  him  that  might 
have  warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  but  it 
was  his  turn  to  look  in  at  the  parrot  now,  ana  however 
expressive  his  imagination  may  have  made  her  angry 
Bcowl,  it  was  unseen  by  his  bodily  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him,  Rob," 
said  the  old  woman,  in  a  wheedling  voice,  but  with  in- 
creased malignity  of  aspect. 

Rob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot, 
and  in  trolling  his  forefinger  on  the  wires,  that  he  made 
no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a  hair's 
breadth  of  his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the 
table;  but  she  restrained  her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a 
voice  that  choked  with  its  efforts  to  be  coaxing: 

"Robby,  my  child." 

"  Well,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 

"  I  say,  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him, 
dear." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the- 
Grinder. 

Mrs.  Brown  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right 
hand  at  his  hair,  and  tne  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  nis 
throat,  and  held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affection 
with  such  extraordinary  fury,  that  his  face  began  to 
blacken  in  a  moment. 

"Misses  Brown!"  exclaimed  the  Grinder,  "let  go, 
will  you!  What  are  you  doing  of!  Help,  young 
woman!     Misses  Brow — Brow — !" 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his 
direct  appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  marticulate  utterance 
remained  quite  neutral,  until,  after  struggling  with  his 
assailant  mto  a  comer,  Rob  disengaged  himself,  and 
stood  there  panting  and  fenced  in  oy  his  own  elbows, 
while  the  old  woman,  panting  too,  and  stamping  with 
rage  and  eagerness,  appeared  to  be  collecting  her  en- 
ergies for  another  swoop  upon  him.  At  this  crisis  Alice 
interposed  her  voice,  but  not  in  the  Grinder's  favor,  by 
saying, 


310  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Well  done,  mother.    Tear  him  to  pieces!" 

"What,  young  woman!"  blubbered  Rob;  "areyw 
against  me  too?  What  have  I  been  and  done?  What 
am  I  to  be  tore  to  pieces  for,  I  should  like  to  knov! 
Why  do  vou  take  and  choke  a  cove  who  has  never  done 
you  any  harm,  neither  of  you?  Call  yourselves  female^ 
too! "  said  the  frightened  and  afflicted<G-rinder,  with  bis 
coat-cuff  at  his  eye.  "I'm  surprised  at  youl  Where's 
your  feminine  tenderness?" 

"You  thankless  dog!"  gasped  Mrs,  BrOTvn.  "You 
impudent,  insulting  dogi " 

"  What  have  I  been  and  done  to  go  and  give  you 
offence,  Misses  Brown?"  retorted  the  tearful  Rob. 
"  You  was  very  much  attached  to  me  a  minute  ago." 

"  To  cut  me  off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky 
words,"  said  the  old  woman.     "Me!    Because  I  hap- 

Sen  to  be  curious  to  have  a  little  bit  of  gossip  about 
[aster  and  the  lady,  to  dare  to  play  at  fast  and  loose 
with  me!  But  I'll  talk  to  you  no  more,  my  lad.  Now 
go!" 

"  I  am  sure.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  abject 
Grinder,  "I  never  insiniwated  that  I  wished  to  go. 
Don't  talk  like  that,  Misses  Brown,  if  you  please." 

"  I  won't  talk  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an  action 
of  her  crooked  fingers  that  made  him  shrink  into  half 
his  natural  compass  in  the  comer.  "  Not  another  word 
with  him  shall  pass  my  lips.  He's  an  ungrateful  hound. 
I  cast  him  off.  No,  let  him  gol  And  I'll  slip  those  after 
him  that  shall  talk  too  much ;  that  won't  be  shook  away: 
that'll  hang  to  him  like  leeches,  and  slink  arter  him 
like  foxes.  What!  He  knows  'em.  He  knows  his  old 
games  and  his  old  ways.  If  he's  forgotten  'em, 
they'll  soon  remind  him.  Now  let  him  go,  and  see  how 
lic'H  do  Master's  business,  and  keep  Master's  secrete, 
with  such  company  always  following  him  up  and  down. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  He'll  find  'em  a  different  sort  from  you 
and  me,  Ally:  close  as  he  is  with  you  and  me.  Now  let 
him  go,  now  let  him  go! " 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the 
Grinder,  walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round  in 
a  ring  of  some  four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  repeat- 
ing these  words,  and  shaking  her  fist  above  her  head, 
and  working  her  mouth  about. 

"  Misses  Brown,"  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a  little  out  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SOJJ.  311 

his  comer,  "  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  a  cove,  on 
second  thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you?" 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  Btill  wrathfully 
pursuing  her  circle.  "'  Now  let  him  go,  how  let  him  gol " 
,  "Misses  Brown."  urged  the  tormented  Grinder,  "I 
didn't  mean  to — Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  cove  to  get 
into  such  a  line  as  this! — I  was  only  careful  of  talking. 
Misses  Brown,  because  I  always  am,  on  account  of  his 
being  up  to  everything;  but  I  mieht  have  known  it 
wouWn't  have  gone  any  further.  I'm  sure  I'm  quite 
agreeably"  with  a  wretched  face,  "for  any  little  bit  of 
gossip,  Misses  Brown.  Don't  go  on  like  this,  if  you 
please.  Oh,  couldn't  you  have  the  goodness  to  put  m  a 
word  for  a  miserable  cove,  here  I'  said  the  Grinder, 
appealing  in  desperation  to  the  daughter. 

"Come,  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,"  she  inter- 
posed, in  her  stern  voice,  and  with  an  impatient  action 
of  her  head;  "  try  him  once  more,  and  if  vou  fall  out 
with  him  again,  ruin  him,  if  you  like,  ana  have  done 
with  him." 

Mrs.  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tender 
exhortation,  presently  began  to  howl;  and  softening  by 
degrees  took  the  apologetic  Grinder  to  her  arms,  who 
einbraced  her  with  a  face  of  unutterable  woe,  and  like 
a  victim  as  he  was,  resumed  his  former  seat,  close  by 
the  side  of  his  venerable  friend;  whom  he  suffered,  not 
without  much  constrained  sweetness  of  countenance, 
combating  very  expressive  physiognomical  revelations 
of  an  opposite  character,  to  draw  his  arm  through 
hers,  and  keep  it  there. 

"And  how's  master,  deary  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
when,  sitting  in  this  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged 
each  other. 

"  Hush!  If  you'd  be  so  good,  Misses  Brown,  as  to 
speak  a  little  lower,"  Rob  implored.  "  Why,  he's  pretty 
well,  thank'ee,  I  suppose." 

"You're  not  out  of  place,  Robby?"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
in  a  wheedling  tone. 

"  Why,  I'm  not  exactly  out  of  place  nor  in,"  faltered 
Rob,  "  I— I'm  still  in  pay.  Misses  Brown." 

"And  nothing  to  do,  Rob?" 

"  Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now.  Misses  Brown, 
but  to — keep  my  eyes  open,"  said  the  Grinder,  rolling 
them  in  a  forlorn  way. 


312  rVOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Master  abroad,  Rob?" 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake.  Misses  Brown,  couldn't  you 

gossip  with  a  oovq  about  anything  else! "  cried  tlii; 
Tinder,  in  a  burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown  rising  directly,  the  tor- 
tured Grinder  detained  her,  stammering  *'  Ye-yes, 
Misses  Brown,  I  believe  he's  abroad.  "W  hat^  she  staring 
at?"  he  added  in  allusion  to  the  daughter,  whose  eyen 
were  fixed  upon  the  face  that  now  again  looked  out  he- 
hind  him. 

"  Don't  mind  her,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  holding 
him  closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  "  It's  her  way 
— her  way.  Tell  me,  Rob.  Did  you  ever  see  the  lady, 
deary?" 

"Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady?"  cried  thoQrinderin 
a  tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

"  What  lady?  "  she  retorted.  "  The  lady;  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  see  her  once,"  replied  Rob. 

"  The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh?  "  said  the  old 
woman  in  nis  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change  in 
his  face.  "  Aha!    I  know  it  was  that  night." 

"  Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know, 
Misses  Brown,"  replied  Rob,  "it's  no  use  putting  pinch- 
ers into  a  cove  to  make  him  sav  so." 

"  Where  did  they  go  that  night,  Rob?  Straightawavi' 
How  did  they  go?  Where  did  you  see  her?  Did  she 
laugh?  Did  she  cry?  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  cried  the 
old  hag,  holding  him  closer  yet,  patting  the  hand  that 
was  drawn  through  his  arm  against  her  other  hand,  and 
searching  every  Ime  in  his  face  with  her  bleared  eves. 
"Come!  Begin!  I  want  to  be  told  all  about  it.  Wnat, 
Rob,  bovl  You  and  me  can  keep  a  secret  together,  eh? 
We've  d.one  so  before  now.  Where  did  they  go  first. 
Rob?" 

The  wretched  Qrinder  made  a  gasp,  and  a  pause. 

"Are  you  dumb?"  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

"  Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no!  You  expect  a  cove  to  be  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I  wish  I  vas  the  electric  fluency," 
muttered  the  bewildered  Grinder.  "I'd  have  a  shock 
at  somebody,  that  would  settle  their  business." 

"What  do  you  say?"  asked  the  old  woman,  with  a 
grin. 

"I'm  wishing  my  love  to  you,  Misses  Brown,"  returned 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  313 

the  false  Kob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass. 
"  Where  did  they  go  to  first,  wtis  it!  Him  and  her  do 
you  mean?" 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  woman, eagerly.     "Them  two." 

"  Why  they  didn't  go  nowhere — not  together,  I  mean," 
answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  as  though  she  bad  a 
strong  impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch  at  his 
head  and  throat,  out  was  restrained  by  a  certain  dogged 
mystery  in  his  face. 

"  That  was  the  art  of  it,"  said  the  reluctant  Grinder; 
*'  that's  the  way  nobody  saw  'em  go,  or  has  been  able  to 
say  how  they  did  go.  They  went  different  ways,  I  tell 
you.  Misses  Brown." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place," 
chuckled  the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  silent  and 
keen  scrutiny  of  his  face. 

"  Why,  if  they  weren't  a  going  to  meet  somewhere,  I 
suppose  they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home, 
mightn't  they.  Misses  Brown?"  returned  the  unwilling 
Grmder. 

"Well,  Rob?  Well?"  said  the  old  woman,  drawing 
his  arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  her  eager- 
ness, she  were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 

"  What, haven't  we  talked  enough  yet.  Misses  Brown?" 
returned  the  Grinder,  who,  between  bis  sense  of  injury, 
his  sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  the  rack, 
had  become  so  lachrymose,  that  at  almost  every  answer 
he  scooped  his  coat-cuff  into  one  or  other  of  his  eyes, 
and  uttered  an  unavailing  whine  of  remonstrance.  '  'Dia 
she  laugh  that  night,  was  it?  Didn't  you  ask  if  she 
laughed.  Misses  Brown?  " 

"  Or  cried?  "  added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

" Neither,"  said  the  Grinder.  "She  kept  as  steady 
when  she  and  me — oh,  I  see  you  will  have  out  of  me. 
Misses  Brown!  But  take  your  solemn  oath  now,  that 
you'll  never  tell  anybody." 

This  Mrs.  Brown  very  readily  did;  being  naturally 
Jesuitical;  and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter 
than  that  her  concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  himself. 

"She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went 
down  to  Southampton,"  said  the  Grinder,  "as  a  image. 
In  the  morning  she  was  just  the  same.  Misses  Brown. 
And  when  she  went  away  in  the  packet  before  daylight., 


314  DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

by  herself — me  pretending  to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing 
her  safe  al>oard — she  was  just  the  Bame.  Now,  are  you 
contented,  Mrs.  Brown?" 

"  No,  Rob.    Not  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  decisively. 

"  Oh  here's  a  woman  for  youl  "  cried  the  unfortunate 
Rob,  in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own 
helplessness.  "What  did  you  wish  to  know  nest, 
Misses  Brown?" 

"  What  became  of  Master?  Where  did  he  go?"  she 
inquired,  still  holding  him  tight,  and  looking  close  into 
his  face  with  her  sharp  eyes. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know.  Misses  Brown,"  an- 
swered Rob.  "Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  what  he 
did,  nor  where  he  went,  nor  anything  about  him,  I 
only  know  what  he  said  to  me  as  a  caution  to  hold  mj 
tongue,  when  we  parted;  and  I  tell  you  this,  Misses 
Brown,  as  a  friend,  that  sooner  than  ever  repeat  a  word 
of  what  we're  saying  now,  you  had  better  take  and 
shoot  yourself,  or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house,  and 
■set  it  a-fire,  for  there's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do,  to  be  re- 
venged upon  you.  You  don't  know  him  half  as  well  as 
I  do,  Misses  Brown.  You're  never  safe  from  him,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Haven't  I  taken  an  oath,"  retorted  the  old  woman, 
"  and  won't'I  keep  it?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will,  Misses  Brown,"  re- 
turned Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a 
latent  threatening  in  his  manner.  "For  your  own  sake, 
quite  as  much  as  mine." 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  caution, 
nnd  emphasised  it  with  a  nodding  of  his  head;  but  find- 
ing it  uncomfortable  to  encounter  the  yellow  face  with 
its  grotesque  action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with  their  keen 
<ild  wintry  gaze,  so  close  to  his  own,  he  looked  down 
uneasily  and  sat  shuffling  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  bring  himself  to  a  sullen  declaration  that  he 
would  answer  no  more  questions.  The  old  woman,  still 
holding  him  as  before,  took  this  opportunity  of  raising 
the  forefinger  of  her  right  hand  in  tne  air,  as  a  stealthy 
signal  to  The  concealed  observer  to  give  particular 
attention  to  what  was  about  to  follow. 

"  Rob."  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

"Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  "what's  the  matter 
now?"  returned  the  exasperated  Grinder. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  315 

"  Rob!  where  did  the  lady  and  Master  appoint  to 
meet?  " 

Rob  shufSed  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and 
looked  down,  and  bit  his  thmub,  and  dried  it  on  his 
waistcoat,  and  finally  said,  eyeing  his  tormentor  askant, 
"How  should  Jknow,  Misses  Brown?" 

"  The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again,  as  before, 
and  replving,  "Come,  lad!  It's  no  use  leading  me  to 
that,  and  there  leaving  me.  I  want  to  know  " — waited 
for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a  discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  out 
with,  "How  can  I  pronoimce  the  names  of  foreign 
places,  Misses  Brown?  What  an  unreasonable  woman 
you  are ! " 

"  But  you  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,"  she  retorted 
firmly,  "  and  you  know  what  it  sounded  like.    Come! " 

"I  never  heard  it  said.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder. 

"  Then,"  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  "  you  have 
seen  it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it.'' 

Rob,  with  a  petulant  exclamation  between  laughing 
and  crying — for  he  was  penetrated  with  some  admira- 
tion of  Mrs.  Brown's  cunning,  even  through  this  perse- 
cution—after some  reluctant  fumbling  in  nis  waistcoat 
pocket,  produced  from  it  a  little  piece  of  chalk.  The 
old  woman's  eves  sparkled  when  she  saw  it  between 
his  thimib  and  finger,  and  hastily  clearing  a  space  on 
the  deal  table,  that  ne  might  write  the  word  there,  she 
once  more  made  her  signal  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  Beforehand  what  it  is.  Misses 
Brown,"  said  Rob,  "it's  no  use  asking  me  anything 
else.  I  won't  answer  anything  else;  I  can't.  How 
long  it  was  to  be  before  they  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was 
that  they  was  to  go  away  alone,  I  don't  know  no  more 
than  you  do.  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it.  If  I 
was  to  tell  you  how  I  found  out  this  word,  you'd  be- 
lieve that.     Shall  I  tell  you,  Misses  Brown?" 

"  Yes,  Rob." 

"  Well  then,  Misses  Brown.  The  way — now  you 
won't  ask  any  more,  you  know?"  said  Rob,  turning  his 
eyes,  which  were  now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid, 
upon  her. 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 

"  Well,  then,  the  way  was  this.    When  acertaia'^twsQ. 


316  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

left  the  lady  with  me,  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  with  a  di- 
rection written  on  it  in  the  lady  b  hand,  sayine  it  was  in 
case  she  Should  forget.  She  wasn't  afraid  of  forgetting, 
for  she  tore  it  up  as  soon  his  back  was  turned,  and  when 
I  put  up  the  carriage  steps,  I  shook  out  one  of  the  pieces 
— she  sprinkled  the  rest  out  of  the  window,  I  suppose, 
for  there  was  none  there  afterwards,  though  I  lookea 
for  'em.  There  was  only  one  word  on  it,  and  that  was 
this,  if  you  must  ana  will  know.  But  remember! 
You're  upon  your  oath,  Misses  Brown! " 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Hob,  having  nothing 
more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously,  on 
the  table. 

" '  D,' "  the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  he  had  formed 
the  letter, 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Misses  Brown?  "  he  ei- 
claimed,  covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  im- 
patiently upon  her,"  Iwon't  have  it  read  out.  Be  quiet, 
will  Tou ! " 

"Then  write  large,  Rob,"  she  returned,  repeating  her 
secret  signal;  "  for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  even  at  print" 

Muttering  to  himself  and  returning  to  his  work  with 
an  ill  will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  his 
head  down,  the  person  for  whose  information  he  so  un- 
consciously labored,  moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to 
within  a  snort  stride  of  his  shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly 
toward  the  creeping  track  of  his  hand  upon  the  table. 
At  the  same  time,  Alice,  from  her  opposite  chair, 
watched  it  narrowly  as  it  shaped  the  letters  and  repeated 
each  one  on  her  lips  as  he  made  it,  without  articulating 
it  aloud.  At  the  end  of  every  letter  her  eyes  and  Mr. 
Dombey's  met,  as  if  each  of  them  sought  to  be  con- 
firmed by  the  other:  and  thus  they  both  spelt  DIJON, 

"There!"  sfiid  the  Grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of 
his  hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  word;  and  not  content 
with  smearing  it  out,  rubbing  and  planing  all  trace  of  it 
away  with  his  coat  sleeve,  until  the  very  color  of  the 
chalk  was  gone  from  the  table.  "  Now,  I  hope  you're 
contented.  Misses  Brown!" 

The  old  woman,  in  token  of  her  being  bo,  released 
his  arm  and  patted  his  back;  and  the  Grinder,  overcome 
with  mortification,  cross-examination  and  liquor,  folded 
his  arms  on  the  table,  laid  his  head  upon  them  and 
fell  asleep. 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  317 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  Bome  time  and 
was  snoring  roundly,  did  the  old  woman  turn  towards 
the  door  wliere  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  becton 
him  to  come  through  the  room  and  pass  out.  Even  then 
she  hovered  over  Rob,  ready  to  olind  him  with  her 
hands,  or  strike  his  head  down  if  he  should  raise  it 
while  the  secret  step  was  crossing  to  the  door.  But 
though  her  glance  took  sharp  cognisance  of  the  sleeper, 
it  was  sharp  too  for  the  waking  man;  and  when  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  caution, 
made  a  chinking,  golden  sound,  it  was  as  bright  and 
greedy  as  a  raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  him  to  the  door 
and  noted  well  how  pale  he  was  and  how  his  hurried 
tread  indicated  that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable 
restraint  upon  him  and  how  he  was  burning  to  oe  active 
and  away.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him  she  looked 
round  at  her  mother.  The  old  woman  trotted  to  her; 
opened  her  hand  to  show  what  was  within;  and  tightiv 
closing  it  again  in  her  jealousy  and  avarice,  whispered: 

"What  will  he  do,  Ally?" 

"Mischief,"  said  the  daughter. 

"Murder?"  asked  the  ola  woman. 

"He's  a  madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may 
do  that,  for  anything  we  can  say,  or  he  either." 

Her  glance  was  brighter  than  her  mother's  and  the 
fire  that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer;  but  her  face  was  color- 
less, even  to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart;  the  mother  commim- 
ing  with  her  money;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts; 
the  glance  of  each"  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  feebly 
lighted  room.  Rob  slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded 
parrot  only  was  in  action.  It  twisted  and  nulled  at  the 
wires  of  its  cage  with  its  crooked  beak  ana  crawled  up 
to  the  dome  and  along  its  roof  like  a  fly  and  down  again 
head  foremost,  and  shook  and  bit  and  rattled  at  every 
slender  bar,  as  if  it  knew  its  Master's  danger,  and  was 
vrild  to  force  a  passage  out  and  fly  away  to  warn  him 
of  it. 


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318  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IfpRE  INTBLLIOENCB. 

Thebb  were  two  of  the  traitor's  own  blood — ^his  re- 
nounced brother  and  sister — on  whom  the  weight  of  his 
Siilt  rested  almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on 
e  man  whom  he  had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and 
tormenting  as  the  world  was,  it  did  Mr,  Dombey  the 
service  of  nerving  him  to  pursuit  and  revenge.  It 
roused  his  passion,  stung  his  pride,  twisted  the  one  idea 
of  his  life  into  a  new  shape,  and  made  some  gratification 
of  his  wrath,  the  object  into  which  his  whole  intellectual 
existence  resolved  itself.  All  the  stubbornne&s  and  im- 
placability of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable 
quality,  all  its  gloom  and  moroseness,  all  its  exagger- 
ated sense  of  personal  importance,  all  its  jealous  dispo- 
sition to  resent  the  least  flaw  in  the  ample  recognition 
of  his  importance,  by  others,  set  this  way  like  many 
streams  united  into  one,  and  bore  him  upon  their  tide. 
The  most  impetuously  passionate  and  violently  impul- 
sive of  mankind  would  have  been  a  milder  enemy  to  en- 
counter than  the  sullen  Mr.  Dombey  wrought  to  this. 
A  wild  beast  would  have  been  easier  turned  or  soothed 
than  the  grave  gentleman  without  a  wrinkle  in  his 
starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became  almosta 
substitute  for  action  m  it.  WhUe  he  was  yet  imin- 
formed  of  the  traitor's  retreat,  it  served  to  divert  his 
mind  from  his  own  calamity,  and  to  entertain  it  with 
another  prospect.  The  brotner  and  sister  of  his  false 
favorite  had  no  such  relief;  everything  in  their  history, 
past  and  present,  gave  his  delinquency  a  more  afflicting 
meaning  to  them. 

The  sister  may  have  sometimes  sadly  thought  that  if 
she  had  remained  with  him  the  companion  and  friend 
she  had  been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime 
into  which  he  had  fallen.  If  she  ever  thought  bo,  it 
was  still  without  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  without 
the  least  doubt  of  her  duty,  without  ^ny  pricing  or  en- 
hancing of  her  self-devotion.  But  when  this  possibility 
presented  itself  to  the  erring  and  repentant  brother,  as 
it  sometimes  did,  it  smote  upon  his  heart  with  such  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  310 

keen,  reproachful  touch  as  he  could  hardly  bear.  No 
idea  of  retort  upon  his  cruel  brother  came  into  his 
mind.  New  accusation  of  himself,  fresh  inward  lament- 
ings  over  his  own  unworthiness,  and  the  ruin  in  which 
it  was  at  once  his  consolation  and  his  self-reproach  that 
he  did  not  stand  alone,  were  the  sole  kind  of  reflections 
to  which  the  discovery  gave  rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set  upon 
the  leist  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey's  world  was 
busiest  with  the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window 
of  the  room  in  which  the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their 
early  breakfast,  was  darkened  by  the  unexpected 
shaaowof  a  man  coming  to  the  little  porch:  which  man 
was  Perch  the  messenger, 

"  I've  stepped  over  from  Balls  Pond  at  a  early  hour," 
said  Mr.  Perch,  confidentially  looking  in  at  the  room 
door,  and  stopping  on  the  mat  to  wipe  his  shoes  all 
round,  which  nad  no  mud  upon  them,  "agreeable  to 
my  instructions  last  night.  They  was,  to  be  sure  and 
bnug  a  note  to  you,  Mr.  Carker,  before  you  went  out  in 
the  morning.  I  should  have  been  here  a  good  hour  and 
a  half  ago,  said  Mr.  Perch,  meekly,  "  but  for  the  state 
of  health  of  Mrs."  P.,  who  I  thought  I  should  have  lost 
in  the  night,  I  do  assure  you,  five  distinct  times." 

"  Is  your  wife  so  ill  ? "  asked  Harriet. 

"Why  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  first  turning  round 
to  shut  the  door  carefully,  "she  takes  what  has  hap- 
pened in  our  House  so  much  to  heart,  misa.  Her  nerves 
18  so  very  delicate  you  see,  and  soon  unstrung.  Not 
but  what  the  strongest  nerves  had  good  need  to  be 
shook,  I'm  siu'e.  You  feel  it  very  much  yourself,  no 
doubts." 

Harriet  repressed  a  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her  brother, 

"I'm  sure  I  feel  it  myself,  in  my  humble  way,"  Mr. 
Perch  went  on  to  say,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  '■  in  a 
manner  I  couldn't  have  believed  if  I  hadn't  been  called 
upon  to  undereo.  It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon 
me,  I  literally  feels  every  morning  as  if  I  had  been 
taking  more  than  was  good  for  me  over  night." 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  this  recital  of 
his  symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feverish  lassitude 
about  it,  that  seemed  referable  to  drams;  and  which  in 
fact,  might  no  doubt  have  been  traced  to  those  numer- 
ous discoveries  of  himself  in  the  bars  of  yubVvr-'a'SNiS:^., 


320  DOMBEY  AND  BON. 

being  treated  and  questioned,  which  he  was  in  the 
daily  habit  of  making.  ^ 

"  Therefore  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr,  Perch,  shaking  his 
head  again,  and  speaking  in  a  silvery  murmur,  "  of  the 
feelings  of  such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwatea  in  this 
most  painful  rewelation." 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in-  and  receiv- 
ing no  confidence,  coughed  behind  his  hand.  This  lead- 
ing to  nothing,  he  coughed  behind  his  hat;  and  that 
leading  to  nothing,  he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground,  and 
sought  in  his  breast  pocket  for  the  letter. 

"If  I  rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  answer,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  with  an  affable  smile;  "but  perhaps  youTl 
be  so  good  as  cast  your  eye  over  it,  sir." 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dombey's, 
and  possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were 
very  brief,  replied,  "No.     No  answer  is  expected." 

"  Then  I  shall  wish  you  good  morning,  miss,"  said 
Perch,  taking  a  step  toward  the  door,  "  and  hoping,  I'm 
sure,  that  you'll  not  permit  vourself  to  be  more  reduced 
in  mind  than  you  can  help,  ^y  the  late  painful  rewela- 
tion. The  Papers,"  said  Mr,  Perch,  taking  two  steps 
back  again,  and  comprehensively  addressing  both  tfie 
brother  and  sister  in  a  whisper  of  increased  mystery, 
"  is  more  eager  for  news  of  it  than  you'd  suppose  possi- 
ble. One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a  blue  cloak  and  a 
white  hat,  that  had  previously  offered  for  to  bribe  me— 
need  I  say  with  what  success? — was  dodging  about  our 
court  last  night  as  late  as  twenty  minutes  after  eight 
o'clock,  I  see  him  myself,  with  his  eye  at  the  counting- 
house  keyhole,  which  being  patent  is  impervious.  An- 
other one,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  with  milintary  frogs,  is  in 
the  parlor  of  the  King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day.  I 
happened,  last  week,  to  let  a  little  obserwation  fall 
there,  and  next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  see  it 
worked  up  in  print,  in  a  most  surprising  manner." 

Mr.  Perch  resorted  to  his  breast  pocket  as  if  to  pro- 
duce the  paragraph,  but  receiving  no  encouragement, 
pulled  out  his  beaver  gloves,  picked  up  his  hat.  and 
took  his  leave;  and  before  it  was  high  noon,  Mr.  Perch 
hfid  related  to  several  select  audiences  at  the  King's 
Arms  and  elsewhere,  how  Miss  Carker,  bursting  into 
tears,  had  caught  him  by  both  bauds,  and  said,  ■'Oh! 
dear,  dear  Perch,  the  sight  of  you  is  all  the  comfort  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ■  331 

have  left! "  and  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in  an 
awful  voice,  "  Perch,  I  disown  him.  Never  let  me  hear 
him  mentioned  as  a  brother  more!" 

"  Dear  John,"  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
and  had  remained  silent  for  some  few  moments.  "  There 
are  bad  tidings  in  that  letter." 

"  Yes.  But  nothing  unexpected,'"  he  replied.  "  I  saw 
the  writer  yesterday. 

"The  writer?" 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  He  passed  twice  through  the  count- 
ing-house while  I  was  there.  I  had  been  able  to  avoid 
him  before,  but  of  course  could  not  hope  to  do  that  long. 
I  know  how  natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my 
presence  as  something  offensive;  I  felt  it  must  be  so, 
myself," 

"  He  did  not  say  so? " 

"  No;  be  said  nothing:  but  I  saw  that  his  glance 
rested  on  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  was  prepared  for 
what  would  happen— for  what  haa  happened.    I  am  dis- 


She  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she 
could,  but  it  was  distressing  news,  for  many  reasons. 

"  '  I  need  not  tell  you,' "  said  John  Carker,  reading  the 
V  letter,  "  '  why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an  un- 
natural sound,  in  however  remote  a  connexion  with 
mine,  or  why  the  daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it 
would  be  unendurable  to  me,  I  have  to  notify  the  cessa- 
tion of  all  engagements  between  us,  from  this  date,  and 
to  request  that  no  renewal  of  any  communication  with 
me,  or  my  establishment,  be  ever  attempted  by  you.' — 
Enclosed  is  an  equivalent  in  money  to  a  generously 
long  notice,  and  this  is  my  discharge.  Heaven  knows, 
Harriet,  it  is  a  lenient  and  considerate  one,  when  we  re- 
member all! " 

"  If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at 
"  all,  John,  for  the  misdeed  of  another,"  she  replied  gen- 
tly, '"yes." 

"  We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,"  said  John 
Carker.  "  He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of 
our  name,  and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed 
and  wicked  in  our  blood.  I  should  almost  think  it  too, 
Harriet,  but  for  you." 

"  Brother,  don't  speak  like  this.  If  you  have  any  spe- 
cial reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  Uuivt  'jQxiLVa:^'^ 


38»  *  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

—though  I  say,  No!— to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hearing 
of  such  wild,  mad  words!" 

He  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands;  but  soon 
permitted  her,  coming  near  him,  to  take  one  in  her  owd. 

"After  BO  many  years,  this  parting  is  a  melancholy 
thing,  I  know,"  said  his  sister,  "  anathe  cause  of  it  i8 
dreadful  to  us  both.  We  have  to  live  too,  and  must' 
look  about  us  for  the  means.  Well,  well!  We  can  do  so, 
undismayed.  It  is  our  pride,  not  our  trouble,  to  strive, 
John,  and  to  strive  together." 

A  smile  played  on  ner  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheek, 
and  entreated  him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

"  Oh,  dearest  sister!  Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will,  to 
a  ruined  man!  whose  reputation  is  blighted;  who  has 
no  friend  himself,  and  has  driven  every  friend  of  youre 
away! " 

"  John!  "  she  laid  her  hand  hastily  upon  his  lips.  "  for 
my  sake!  In  remembrance  of  our  long  companionship!" 
He  was  silent.  "  Now  let  me  tell  you,  dear,"  quietly 
sitting  by  his  side,  "I  have,  as  you  have,  expected  this; 
and  when  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing  that 
it  would  happen,  and  preparing  myself  for  it,  as  well  as 
I  could,  I  have  resolved  to  tell  you,  if  it  should  be  eo, 
that  I  had  kept  a  secret  from  you,  and  that  we  have  a 
friend. " 

"What's  our  friend's  name,  Harriet?"  he  answered 
with  a  sorrowful  smile. 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,  but  he  once  made  a  verr 
earnest  protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship  and  hiswisli 
to  serve  us:  and  to  this  day  I  bf^lieve  him." 

"  Harriet! "  exclaimed  her  wondering  brother,  "  where 
does  this  friend  live?" 

"Neither  do  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "But  be 
knows  us  both  and  our  history — all  our  little  history, 
John.  That  is  the  reason  why,  at  his  own  suggestioii. 
I  have  kept  the  secret  of  his  coming  here  from  you,  lest ' 
his  acquamtance  with  it  would  distress  you." 

"  Here!    Has  he  been  here,  Harriet?  " 

"  Here,  in  this  room.    Once," 

"  What  kind  of  man?" 

"Not  young.  'Grey-headed,'  as  he  said,  'and  fast 
growing  greyer.'  But  generous,  and.  frank,  and  good, 
I  tun  sure," 

"  And  only  seen  once,  Harriet?" 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  333 

"  In  this  room  only  once,"  said  his  sister,  with  the 
slightest  and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheek;  "  but 
when  here,  he  entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once 
a  week  as  he  paestid  by  in  token  of  our  heine  well,  and 
continuing  to  need  nothing  at  his  hands.  For  I  told 
him,  when  he  proffered  us  any  service  he  could  render 
— which  was  the  object  of  his  visit — that  we  needed 
nothing," 

"  And  once  a  week — ." 

"Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  on  the 
same  day,  and  at  tlie  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past;  al- 
ways on  foot;  always  going  in  the  same  direction — 
towards  London;  and  never  pausing  longer  than  to  bow 
to  me,  and  wave  his  hand  cheerfully,  as  a  kind  guard- 
ian might.  He  made  that  promise  when  he  proposed 
these  curious  interviews,  and  has  kept  it  so  faithfully 
and  pleasantly,  that  if  I  ever  felt  any  trifling  uneasiness 
about  them  in  the  beginning  (which  I  don't  think  I  did, 
John;  his  manner  was  ^o  plain  and  true)  it  very  soon 
vanished,  and  left  me  quite  glad  when  the  day  was 
coming.  Last  Monday — the  first  since  this  terrible  event 
— he  did  not  go  by;  and  I  have  wondered  whether  his 
absence  can  have  been  in  any  way  connected  with  what 
has  happened." 

"  How? "  inquired  her  brother. 

"  I  don't  know  how.  I  have  only  speculated  on  the 
coincidence;  I  have  not  tried  to  account  for  it.  I  feel 
sure  he  will  return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me 
tell  him  that  I  have  at  last  spoken  to  you,  and  let  me 
bring  you  together.  He  will  certainly  help  us  to  a  new 
livelihood.  His  entreaty  was  that  -he  might  do  some- 
thing to  smooth  my  life  and  yours;  and  I  gave  him  my 
promise  that  if  we  ever  wanted  a  friend,  I  would  remem- 
ber him.  Then,  his  name  was  to  be  no  secret." 

"Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with 
close  attention,  "describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I 
surely  ought  to  know  one  who  knows  me  so  well," 

His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  feat- 
ures, stature,  and  dress  of  her  visitor;  but  John  Carker, 
either  from  having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or 
from  some  fault  in  ner  description,  or  from  abstraction 
of  his  thoughts  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  pondering, 
could  not  recognise  the  portrait  she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  \i«i  »\vCi\jS&. 


334  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bee  the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  concluded, 
the  sister  applied  herself,  with  a  less  anxious  breast,  to 
her  domestic  occupations;  and  the  grey-haired  man, 
late  Junior  of  Dombey's,  deToted  the  first  day  of  his  un- 
wonted liberty  to  wonting  in  the  garden. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  and  the  brother  was  read- 
ing aloud  while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they 
were  interrupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  at- 
mosphere of  vague  anxiety  and  dread  that  lowered 
about  them  in  connexion  with  their  fugitive  brother, 
this  sound,  unusual  there,  became  almost  alarming.  The 
brother  going  to  the  door,  the  sister  sat  and  listened 
timidly.  Some  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  replied  and 
seemed  surprised;  and  after  a  few  words,  the  two  ap- 
proached together, 

"  Harriet,  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late 
visitor,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr,  Morfin — the 
gentleman  so  long  in  Dombey's  house  with  James." 

His  sister  started  back,  as  if  a  ghost  had  entered.  In 
the  doorwav  stood  the  unknown  friend,  with  the  dark 
hair  sprinkled  with  grey,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad 
clear  brow,  and  hazeleyes  whose  secret  she  had  kept  so 
long! 

"  John! "  she  said  half  breathless,  "  It  is  the  gentle- 
man I  told  you  of,  to-day!" 

"The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet," said  the  visitor,  com- 
ing in — for  he  had  stopped  a  moment  in  the  doorway, 
"is  greatly  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that:  he  has  been 
devising  ways  and  means,  all  the  way  here,  of  explain- 
ing himself,  and  has  been  satisfied  with  none.  Mr, 
John,  I  am  not  quite  a  stranger  here.  You  were  stricken 
with  astonishment  when  you  saw  me  at  your  door  just 
now.  I  observe  you  are  more  astonished  at  present 
Well!  That's  reasonable  enough  under  existing  circum- 
stances. If  we  were  not  such  creatures  of  habit  as  we 
are,  we  shouldn't  have  reason  to  be  astonished  half  so 
often," 

By  this  time,  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agree- 
able mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  recol- 
lected so  well,  and  had  sat  down  near  her,  pulled  off 
his  gloves,  and  thrown  them  into  his  hat  upon  the  table. 

"There's  nothing  astonishing,"  he  said,  "in  my  hav- 
ing conceived  a  desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or 
in  my  having  gratified  it  in  my  own  way.     As  to  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  32S 

regularity  of  my  visits  since  fwhich  she  may  have 
mentioned  to  you),  there  is  notning  extraordinary  in 
that.  They  soon  grew  into  a  habit;  and  we  are  creat- 
ures of  habit— creatures  of  habit!  " 

Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  he  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  if  it 
were  interesting  to  him  to  see  them  together;  and  went 
on  to  say,  with  a  kind  of  irritaWe  though tfulness:  "  It's 
this  same  habit  that  confirms  some  of  us,  who  are 
capable  of  better  things,  in  Lucifer's  own  pride  and 
stubbornness — that  confirms  and  deepens  others  of  us 
in  villainy — more  of  us  in  indifference — that  hardens  us 
from  day  to  day,  according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay, 
like  images,  and  leaves  us  as  susceptible  as  images  to 
new  impressions  and  convictions.  You  shall  judge  of 
its  influence  on  me,  John.  For  more  years  than  I  need 
name,  I  had  my  small,  an  exactly  defined  share,  in  the 
management  of  Dombey's  house,  and  saw  your  brother 
(who  has  proved  himself  a  scoundrel!  Your  sister  will 
forgive  my  being  obliged  to  mention  it)  extending  and 
extending  his  influence,  until  the  business  and  its 
owner  were  his  football;  and  saw  you  toiling  at  your 
obscure  desk  every  day;  and  was  quite  content  to  be 
as  little  troubled  as  I  might  be,  out  of  my  own  strip  of 
duty,  and  to  let  everything  about  me  go  on,  day  by  day, 
unquestioned,  like  a  great  machine — tliat  was  its  habit 
and  mine — and  to  take  it  all  for  granted,  and  consider 
it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights  came  regularly 
round,  our  quartette  parties  came,  regularly  off,  my 
violoncello  was  in  good  tune,  and  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  my  world — or,  if  anything,  not  much — or  little 
or  much,  it  was  no  affair  of  mine." 

"  I  can  answer  for  your  being  more  respected  and  be- 
loved during  all  that  time  than  anybody  in  the  house, 
sir,"  said  John  Carker. 

"  Pooh!  Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  other,  "a  habit  I  had.  It  suited  the  mana- 
ger: it  suited  the  man  he  managed;  it  suited  me  best  of 
all.  I  did  what  was  allotted  to  me  to  do,  made  no  court 
to  either  of  them,  and  was  glad  to  occupy  a  station  in 
which  none  was  required.  So  I  should  have  gone  on 
till  now,  but  that  my  room  had  a  thin  wall.  You  can 
tell  your  sister  that  it  was  divided  from  the  manager's 
room  by  a  wainscot  partition," 


336  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  They  were  adjoining  rooms:  had  been  one,  perhaps, 
originally;  and  were  separated,  as  Mr.  Momn  says," 
said  her  brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  reeump- 
tion  of  hiB  explanation. 

"I  have  wtiistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately 
through  the  whole  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  B,  to  let 
him  know  that  I  was  within  hearing,"  said  Mr.  Morfio; 
' '  but  he  never  heeded  me.  It  happened  Beldom  enough 
that  I  was  within  hearing  of  anything  of  a  private 
nature,  certainly.  But  when  I  was,  and  couldn't  other- 
wise avoid  knowing  something  of  it,  I  walked  out.  I 
walked  out  once,  John,  during  a  conversation  between 
two  brothers,  to  which,  in  the  beginning,  young  Walter 
Gay  was  a  party.  But  I  overheard  some  of  it  before  I 
left  the  room.  You  remember  it  sufficiently,  perbape, 
to  tell  your  sister  what  its  nature  was?  " 

"It  referred,  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  to  the  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the 
house." 

"  Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented  in 
a  new  aspect.  It  shook  me  in  my  habit — the  habit  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  world — of  believing  that  all  was  right 
about  me,  because  I  was  used  to  it,"  said  their  visitor; 
"and  induced  me  to  recall  the  history  of  the  t^vo  broth- 
ers, and  to  ponder  on  it.  I  think  it  was  almost  the  first 
time  in  my  life  when  I  fell  into  this  train  of  reflection- 
how  will  many  things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite  mat- 
ters of  course  to  us  now,  look,  when  we  come  to  see 
them  from  that  new  and  distant  point  of  view  vrhich 
we  must  all  take  up,  one  day  or  other?  I  was  some- 
thing less  good-natured,  as  the  phrase  goes,  after  that 
morning,  less  easy  and  complacent  altogether." 

He  sat  for  a  minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand 
on  the  table;  and  resumed  in  a  hurry,  aa  if  he  were 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  his  confession. 

"  Before  I  knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I  could  do 
anything,  there  was  a  second  conversation  between  the 
same  two  brothers,  in  which  their  sister  was  mentioned. 
I  had  DO  scruples  of  conscience  in  suffering  all  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  that  conversation  to  float  to  me  as  freely 
as  they  would.  I  considered  them  mine  by  right.  After 
that,  I  came  here  to  see  the  sister  for  myself.  The  firet 
time  I  stopped  at  the  garden  gate,  I  made  a  pretext  at 
inquiring  mto  the  character  of  a  poor  neighbor;  but  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  337 

wandered  out  of  that  tract,  and  I  think  Mies  Harriet 
mistrusted  me.  The  second  time  I  asked  leave  to  come 
in;  came  in;  and  said  what  I  wished  to  say.  Your  sis- 
ter showed  me  reasons  which  I  dared  not  dispute,  for 
receiving  no  assistance  from  me  then';  but  I  established 
a  means  of  communication  between  us,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  I  was  pre- 
vented, by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolved 
upon  me,  from  maintaining  them." 

"  How  little  I  have  suspected  this,"  said  John  Carker, 
"when  I  have  seen  you  every  day,  sir!  If  Harriet 
could  have  guessed  your  name — " 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,"  interposed  the 
visitor,  "  I  kept  it  to  myself  for  two  rea.sons.  I  don't 
know  that  the  first  might  have  been  binding  alone;  but 
one  has  no  business  to  take  credit  for  good  intentions, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  all  events,  not  to  disclose 
myself  until  I  should  be  able  to  do  you  some  real  service 
or  other.  Mv  second  reason  was,  that  I  always  hoped 
there  might  oe  some  lingering  possibility  of  your  broth- 
er's relenting  towards  you  both;  and  in  that  case,  I  felt 
that  where  there  was  the  chance  of  a  man  of  his  suspi- 
cious, watchful  character  discovering  that  you  had  been 
secretly  befriended  by  me,  there  was  the  chance  of  a  new 
and  fatal  cause  of  division.  1  resolved,  to  be  sure,  at 
the  risk  of  turning  his  displeasure  against  myself — 
which  would  have  been  no  matter — to  watch  my  oppor- 
tunity of  serving  you  with  the  head  of  the  house;  out 
the  distractions  of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and  do- 
mestic unhappiness,  have  left  us  no  head  but  your 
brother  for  this  long,  long  time.  And  it  would  have 
been  better  for  us."  said  the  visitor,  dropping  his  voice, 
"to  have  been  a  lifeless  trunk." 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  had  es- 
caped him  against  his  will,  and,  stretching  out  a  hand 
to  the  brother  and  a  hand  to  the  sister,  continued: 

"  All  I  could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I  have  now  said. 
All  I  mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I  hope  you  under- 
stand and  believe.  The  time  has  come,  John — though 
most  unfortunately  and  unhappily  come — wheii  I  may 
help  you  without  interfering  with  that  redeeming 
struggle,  which  has  lasted  through  so  many  years; 
since  you  were  discharged  from  it  to-day  by  no  act  of 
your  own.    It  is  late;  I  need  say  no  more  to-night.    Y<ivi. 


-.i-iS  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

will  guard  the  treasure  you  have  here,  without  advice 
or  reminder  from  me." 

With  these  words  he  rose  to  go. 

"But  go  vou  first,  John,"  he  said  good-humoredly, 
'■with  a  liglit,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say. 
whatever  that  may  be;"  Johu  Carker's  heart  was  full, 
and  he  would  have  relieved  it  in  speech,  if  he  could; 
""and  let  me  have  a  word  with  your  sister.  We  have 
talked  alone  before,  and  in  this  room  too;  though  it 
looks  more  natural  with  you  here." 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindly  to 
Harriet,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered 
and  graver  manner: 

"You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  ivhose 
sistcrit  is  your  ^nisf  ortune  to  be." 

"  I  dread  to  ask,"  said  Harriet. 

"You  have  looked  sc  earnestly  at  me  more  than 
once,"  rejoined  the  visitor,  "  that  I  think  I  can 
divine  your  question.  Has  he  taken  money?  Is  it 
that? " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  has  not." 

"  I  thank  Heaven!"  said  Harriet.  "For  the  sake  of 
John." 

*'  That  he  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,"  said 
Mr.  Morfin;  "that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated 
to  advantage  for  himself  than  for  the  house  be  repre- 
sented; that  he  has  led  the  house  on,  to  prodigious  ven- 
tures, often  resulting  in  enormous  losses;  that  he  has 
always  pampered  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  his  em- 
ployer, when  it  was  his  duty  to  have  held  them  in 
check,  and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  to  what 
ihey  tended  here  or  therej  will  not.  perhaps,  surprise 
you  now.  Undertakings  have  been  entered  on,  to  swell 
the  reputation  of  the  house  for  vast  resources,  and  to 
exhibit  it  in  magnificent  contrast  to  other  merchants' 
houses,  of  which  it  requires  a  steady  head  to  contem- 
plate the  possibly — a  few  disastrous  changes  of  affairs 
might  render  them  the  probably — ruinous  consequencee. 
In  the  midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the  house,  in 
most  parts  of  the  world:  a  great  labyrinth  of  which 
only  he  has  held  the  clue:  he  nas  had  the  opportunity, 
and  he  seems  to  have  used  it,  of  keeping  the  various 
results  afloat  when  ascertained,  and  substituting  esti- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  329 

mates  and  generalities  for  facts.  But  latterly — you  fol- 
low me.  Miss  Harriet?" 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,"  she  answered,  with  her  fright- 
ened face  fixea  on  his.  "Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at 
once." 

"Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest 
pains  to  making  these  results  so  plain  and  clear  that 
reference  to  the  private  books  enables  one  to  grasp 
them,  numerous  and  varying  as  they  are,  with  extraor- 
dinary ease.  As  if  he  had  resolved  to  show  his  em- 
Eloyer  at  one  broad  view  what  has  been  brought  upon 
im  by  ministration  to  his  ruling  passion!  that  it  naa 
been  his  constant  practice  to  minister  to  that  passion 
basely,  and  to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In 
that,  nis  criminality,  as  it  is  connected  with  the  affairs 
of  the  bouse,  chiefly  consists." 

"One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  sir,"  said 
Harriet.     "  There  is  no  danger  in  all  this?  " 

"  How  danger? "  be  returned,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"To  the  credit  of  the  house?  " 

"I  cannot  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting 
you  completely,"  said  Mr,  Morfin,  after  a  moment's 
survey  or  her  face. 

"  You  may.     Indeed  you  may! " 

"  I  am  sure  I  may.  Danger  to  the  house's  credit? 
No;  none.  There  may  be  difficulty,  greater  or  less  diffi- 
cultv,  but  no  danger,  unless— unless,  indeed — the  head 
of  tne  house,  unable  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  reduction 
of  its  enterprises,  and  positively  refusing  to  believe  that 
it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any  position  out  the  position  in  which 
he  has  always  represented  it  to  himself,  should  urge  it 
beyond  its  strength,     Then  it  would  totter." 

"But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that?"  said  Har- 
riet. 

"  There  shall  be  no  half -confidence."  he  replied,  shak- 
ing her  hand,  "between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unap- 
proachable by  any  one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty, 
rash,  unreasonable,  and  ungovernable,  now.  But  he  is 
disturbed  and  agitated  now  beyond  all  common  bounds, 
and  it  may  pass.  You  now  know  all,  both  worst  and 
best.     No  more  to-night,  and  good  night!" 

With  that  he  kissed  her  hand,  and,  passing  out  to  the 
door  where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming  ^ut 
him  cheerfully  aside  when  he  essayed  to  s'^ti)f,V?Si.'v;\K\. 


330  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that,  as  they  would  see  each  other  soon  and  often,  he 
migrit  speak  at  another  time,  if  he  would,  but  there  was 
no  leisure  for  it  then;  and  went  away  at  a  round  j>ac«, 
in  order  that  no  word  of  gratitude  might  follow  hun. 

The  brother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside, 
until  it  wiis  almost  day;  made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse 
of  the  new  world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feelmg 
like  two  people  shipwrecked  long  ago  upon  a  solitary 
coast,  to  whom  a  ship  had  come  at  last,  when  they  were 
old  in  resignation,  and  had  lost  all  thought  of  any  other 
home.  But  another  and  diCFerent  kind  of  disquietude 
kept  them  waking  too.  The  darkness  out  of  which  this 
lignt  had  broken  on  them  gathered  around;  and  the 
shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the  house  where 
his  foot  had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the 
sun.  Next  morning  it  was  there;  at  noon;  at  night 
Darkest  and  most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now^  to  be  told. 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,  in  pursuance  of  a  letter  of 
appointment  from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in 
tne  house  alone.  She  had  been  alone  some  hours.  A 
dull,  grave  evening,  and  a  deepening  twilight,  were  not 
favorable  to  theremoval  of  the  oppression  on  her  spirits. 
The  idea  of  this  brother,  long  unseen  and  unknown, 
flitted  about  her  in  frightful  shapes.  He  was  dead,  dying, 
calling  to  her,  staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her.  The 
pictures  in  her  mind  were  bo  obtrusive  and  exact  that, 
as  the  twilight  deepened,  she  dreaded  to  raise  her  h^ 
and  look  at  the  dark  comers  of  the  room,  lest  his  wraith, 
the  offspring  of  her  excited  imagination,  should  be  wait- 
ing there,  to  startle  her.  Once  she  had  such  a  fancy  of 
his  being  in  the  next  room,  hiding — though  she  knew 
quite  well  what  a  distempered  fancv  it  was,  and  had  no 
belief  in  it — that  she  forced  herself  to  go  there,  for  her 
own  conviction.  But  in  vain.  The  room  resumed  its 
shadowy  terrors  the  moment  she  left  it;  and  she  had  no 
more  power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions 
of  dread,  than  if  they  had  been  stone  giants,  rooted  is 
the  solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow, with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when 
sensible  of  a  sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apart- 
ment, she  raised  lier  eyes  and  uttered  an  involuntary 
cry.     Close  to  the  glass,  a  pale  scared  face  gazed  in: 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  331 

vacantly,  for  an  instant,  as  searching  for  an  object:  then 
the  eyes  rested  on  herself,  and  lighted  up. 

"JJet  me  in!  Let  me  in!  I  want  to  speak  to  you!" 
and  the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognised  immediateh'  the  woman  with  the  long 
dark  hair,  to  whom  ehe  had  given  warmth,  food,  ana 
shelter,  one  wet  night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  re- 
membering her  violent  behavior,  Harriet,  retreating  a 
little  from  the  window,  stood  undecided  and  alarmed. 

"Let  me  in!  Let  me  speak  to  you!  I  am  thankful 
— quiet — humble— anything  you  like.  But  let  me  speak 
to  you." 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands  that 
w^ere  raiged  imploringly,  a  certain  dread  and  terror  in 
the  voice  akin  to  her  own  condition  at  the  moment,  pre- 
vailed with  Harriet.  She  hastened  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

"May  I  come  in,  or  shall  I  speak  here?"  said  the 
woman  catching  at  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want?  What  is  it  that  you  have 
to  say?" 

"  Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I  shall  never  say 
it.  I  am  tempted  now  to  go  away.  There  seem  to  be 
hands  dragging  me  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if 
you  can  trust  me  for  this  once! " 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  into  the 
fire-light  of  the  little  kitchen,  where  she  nad  before  eat, 
and  ate,  and  dried  her  clothes. 

"  Sit  there,"  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her, 
"  and  look  at  me.    You  remember  me? " 

"  I  do." 

"  You  remember  what  I  told  you  I  had  been,  and 
where  I  came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce 
wind  and  weather  beating  on  my  head?" 

"  Yes." 

"You  know  how  I  came  back  that  night,  and  threw 
your  money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race. 
Now,  see  me  here,  upon  my  knees.  Am  I  less  earnest 
now,  than  I  was  then?" 

"  If  what  you  ask,"  said  Harriet,  gently,  "  is  forgive- 
ness—  " 

"But  it's  not !"  returned  the  other,with  a  proud,  fierce 
look.     "What  I  ask  is  to  be  believed.    Now -^om  ■aV'aSi. 


an  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

judge  if  I  am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I  was,  and  as  I 
am. 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
and  the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild 
black  hair,  one  long  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  her 
shoulder,  and  wound  about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully 
bit  and  tore  while  speaking,  she  went  on: 

"  When  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,"  plucking 
contemptuously  at  the  nair  she  held,  "  was  only  handled 
delicately,  and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  mv  mother 
who  had  not  been  very  mindful  of  me  as  a  child,  found 
out  ray  merits,  and  was  fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me. 
She  was  covetous  and  poor,  and  thought  to  make  a  sort 
of  property  of  me.  No  great  lady  ever  thought  that  of 
a  daughter  yet,  I'm  sure,  or  acted  as  if  she^did — it's 
never  done,  we  all  know — and  that  shows  that*  the  only 
instances  of  mothers  bringing  up  their  daughters  wrong, 
and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such  miserable  folks 
as  us," 

Looking  at  the  fire,  as  if  she  were  forgetful  for  the 
moment  of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a 
dreamy  way,  as  she  wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  tight 
round  and  round  her  hand. 

■'  What  came  of  that,  I  needn't  say.  Wretched  mar- 
riages don't  come  of  such  things  m  our  d^ree;  only 
wretchedness  and  ruin.  Wretchedness  and  ruin  came 
on  me — came  on  me." 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon 
the  fire,  to  Harriet's  face,  she  said — 

"I  am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to  spare;  yet 
if  I  hadn't  thought  of  all,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now. 
Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me,  I  say,  I  was  made 
a  short-lived  toy,  and  fiun^  aside  more  cruelly  and  care- 
lessly than  even  such  things  are.  By  whose  hand  do 
you  think?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me?"  said  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble? "  rejoinetl  Alice,  with  an  eager 
look.  "His  usage  made  a  Devil  of  me.  I  sunk  in 
wretchedness  and  ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  I  was 
concerned  in  a  robbery — in  every  part  of  it  but  the 
gains — and  was  found  out  and  sent  to  be  tried,  without 
a  friend,  without  a  penny.  Though  I  was  but  a  girl, 
r  would  have  gone  to  Death,  sooner  than  ask  him  for  a 
word,  if  a  word  of  his  could  have  saved  me.     I  would! 


DaMBEY  AND  SON.  3»^ 

To  any  death  that  could  have  been  invented.  But  my 
mother,  covetous  always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name,  told 
the  true  story  of  my  case,  and  humbly  prayed  and 
petitioned  for  a  small  last  gift — for  not  so  many  pounds 
as  I  have  flagers  on  this  nand.  Who  was  it  do  you 
think,  who  snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery, 
lying,  as  he  believed,  at  his  feet,  and  left  me  without 
even  this  poor  sign  of  remembrance;  well  satisfied  that 
I  should  be  sent  abroad,  beyond  the  reach  of  further 
trouble  to  him,  and  should  die,  and  rot  there?  Who 
was  this,  do  you  think?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?"  repeated  Harriet. 

"Why  do  you  tremble?"  said  Alice,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  "but  that 
the  answer  is  on  your  lipsl  It  was  your  brother 
James." 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert 
her  eyes  from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them. 

"  When  I  knew  you  were  his  sister — which  was  on  that 
night — I  came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn  your 
gift.  I  felt  that  night  as  if  I  could  have  travelled, 
weary  and  lame,  over  the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if 
I  could  have  found  him  in  a  lonely  place  with  no 
one  near.  Do  you  believe  that  I  was  earnest  in  all 
that?  " 

"  I  do!    Good  Heaven,  why  are  you  come  again?" 

"  Since  then,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  her 
arm,  and  the  same  look  in  her  face,  "  I  have  seen  himi 
I  have  followed  him  with  my  eyes  in  the  broad  day.  If 
any  spark  of  my  resentment  slumbered  in  my  bosom,  it 
sprung  into  a  blaze  when  my  eyes  rested  on  him.  You 
know  lie  has  wronged  a  proud  man,  and  made  him  his 
deadly  enemy.  What  if  I  nad  given  information  of  him 
to  that  man  ? " 

"  Information! "  repeated  Harriet. 

"  What  if  I  had  found  out  one  who  knew  your  brother's 
secret:  who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight;  who  kn^w 
where  he  and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were  gone? 
What  if  I  had  made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge,  word 
by  word,  before  this  enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it:"  What 
if  I  had  eat  by  at  the  time,  looking  into  this  enemy's 
face,  and  seeing  it  change  until  it  was  scarcely  human? 
What  if  I  bad  seen  him  rush  away,  mad,  in  pursuit? 
What  if  I  knew,  now,  that  he  was  on  his  road,  more 


334  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fiend  than  man,  and  must,  in  so  many  bours,  come  up 
with  him?" 

"  Remove  your  hand!"  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  "Go 
away!    Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me! " 

"  I  have  done  this,"  pursued  the  other,  with  her  ea^r 
look,  regardless  of  the  interruption.  "  Do  I  speak  and 
look  as  if  I  really  had?  Do  you  believe  what  I  am 
saying?  " 

"  I  fear  I  must.     Let  my  arm  go! " 

"Not  yet.  Araomentmore.  Youcan  think  whatmy 
revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  bo  long,  and 
urge  me  to  do  tnis?  " 

"  Dreadful! "  said  Harriet. 

"Then  when  you  see  me  now,"  said  Alice,  hoarsely, 
"here  again,  kneeling  quietly  on  the  ground,  ^ith  my 
touch  upon  your  arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face, 
you  may  believe  that  there  is  no  common  earnestness 
in  what  I  say,  and  that  no  common  struggle  has  been 
battling  in  my  breast.  I  am  ashamed  to  speak  the 
words,  out  I  relent.  I  despise  myself;  I  have  fought 
with  myself  all  day;  and  alt  last  night;  but  I  relent  to- 
wards nim  without  reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  I 
have  done,  if  it  is  possible.  I  wouldn't  have  them  come 
together  while  his  pursuer  is  bo  blind,  and  headlong.  If 
YOU  had  seen  him  as  he  went  out  last  night,  you  would 
Know  the  danger  better." 

"  How  shall  it  be  prevented!  What  can  I  do! "  cried 
Harriet. 

"  All  night  long,"  pursued  the  other,  hurriedly,  "  I  had 
dreams  of  him — and  yet  I  didn't  sleep — in  his  blood. 
All  day,  I  have  had  him  near  me." 

"  What  can  I  do! "  said  Harriet,  shuddering  at  these 
words. 

"  If  there  is  any  one  who  '11  write,  or  send,  or  go  to 
him,  let  them  lose  no  time.  He  is  at  Dijon.  Do  you 
know  the  name,  and  where  it  is?" 

"Yes!" 

"Warn  him  that  the  man  he  has  made  his  eneniv  is 
in  a  frenzy,  and  that  he  doesn't  know  him  if  he  makes 
light  of  his  approach.  Tell  him  that  he  is  on  the  road 
—I  know  he  is! — and  hurrying  on.  Urge  him  to  get 
away  while  there  is  time— if  there  ta  time — and  not  to 
meet  him  yet.  A  month  or  so  will  make  years  of  dif- 
ference.    Let  them  not  encounter  through  me.    Any- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  336 

where  but  there!  Any  time  but  uow!  Let  his  foe  follow 
him,  and  And  liim  for  himself,  hut  not  through  me! 
There  is  enough  upon  my  head  without." 

The  fire  ceased  to  he  reflected  in  her  jet  black  hair, 
uplifted  face,  and  eager  eyes;  her  hand  was  gone  from 
Harriet'8  arm;  and  the  place  where  she  had  been,  was 
empty. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  FUGITIVES. 

The  time,  an  hour  short  of  midnight:  the  pleice,  a 
French  Apartment,  comprising  some  nali-dozen  rooms; 
— a  dull  cold  hail  or  corridor,  a  dining-room,  a  drawing- 
room,  a  bed-chamber,  and  an  inner  drawing-room,  or 
boudoir,  smaller  and  more  retired  than  the  rest.  All 
these  shut  in  by  one  large  pair  of  doors  on  the  main 
staircase,  but  each  room  provided  with  two  or  three 
pairs  of  doors  of  its  own,  establishing  several  means  of 
communication  with  the  remaining  portion  of  the  apart- 
ment, or  with  certain  small  passages  within  the  wall, 
leading,  as  is  not  unusual  in  such  houses,  to  some  back 
stairs  with  an  obscure  outlet  below.  The  whole  situated 
on  the  first  floor  of  so  large  an  hotel,  that  it  did  not  ab- 
sorb one  entire  row  of  windows  upon  one  side  of  the 
square  court-yard  in  the  centre,  upon  which  the  whole 
four  sides  of  the  mansion  looked. 

An  air  of  splendor,  sufficiently  faded  to  be  melan- 
choly, and  sufficiently  dazzling  to  clog  and  embarrass 
the  details  of  Hfe  with  a  show  of  state,  reigned  in  these 
rooms.  The  walls  and  ceihngs  were  gilded  and  painted; 
the  floors  were  waxed  and  polished;  crimson  drapery 
hung  in  festoons  from  window,  door  and  mirror;  and 
candelabra,  gnarled  and  intertwisted  like  the  branches 
of  trees,  or  horns  of  animals,  stuck  out  from  the  panels 
of  the  wall.  But  in  the  day-time,  when  the  lattice- 
blinds  (now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  light  let 
in,  traces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  oi  wear 
and  tear  and  dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and 
lengthened  intervals  of  want  of  use  and  hahitaAiaQ.^ 


336  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

when  such  shows  and  toys  of  life  seem  sensitive  like 
life,  and  waste  as  men  shut  up  in  prison  do.  Even 
night,  and  clusters  of  burning  candles,  could  not  wholly 
emice  them,  though  the  general  glitter  threw  them  in 
the  shade. 

The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in 
looking-glasses,  scraps  of  gilding,  and  gay  colors,  were 
confined,  on  this  night,  to  one  room — that  smaller  room 
within  the  rest,  just  now  enumerated.  Seen  from  the 
hall,  where  a  lamp  was  feebly  burning,  through  the 
dark  perspective  of  open  doors,  it  looked  as  shining  and 

Erecious  as  a  gem.     In  the  heart  of  its  radiance  sat  a 
eautiful  woman — Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman 
still.  The  cheek  a  little  worn,  the  eye  a  little  larger  in 
appearance,  and  more  lustrous,  but  tne  haughty  bearing 
just  the  same.  No  shame  upon  her  brow;  no  late  re- 
pentance bending  her  disdainful  neck.  Imperious  and 
stately  yet,  and  yet  regardless  of  herself  and  of  all  else, 
she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast  down,  waiting  for  some 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her 
own  thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose, 
strong  enough  to  fill  up  any  pause,  possessed  her.  With 
her  lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering  if  for  a  moment 
she  released  them  from  her  control;  with  her  nostril  in- 
flated; her  hands  clasped  in  one  another;  and  her  pur- 
pose swelling  in  her  breast;  she  sat,  and  watted. 

At  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a  foot- 
step in  the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  ' '  Who's  that? " 
The  answer  was  in  French,  and  two  men  came  in  with 
jingling  trays,  to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

"Who  had  bade  them  do  so?"  she  asked. 

"  Monsieur  had  commanded  it,  when  it  was  his  pleas- 
ure to  take  the  apartment.  Monsieur  had  said,  when  he 
stayed  there  for  an  hour,  en  route,  and  left  the  letter 
for  Madame — Madame  had  received  it  surely?" 

"  Yes," 

"A  thousand  pardons!  The  sudden  apprehension  thai 
it  might  have  been  fot^otten  had  struck  him;"  a  bald 
man,  with  a  large  beard  from  a  neighboring  restaurant: 
"  with  despair!  Monsieur  had  said  that  supper  was  to 
be  ready  at  that  hour:  also  that  he  had  forewarned 
Madame  of  the  commands  he  had  given,  in  hia  letter. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  837 

Monsieur  had  done  the  Golden  Head  the  honor  to  re- 
quest that  the  supper  should  be  choice  and  delicate. 
MonBieur  would  find  that  his  confidence  in  the  Gkilden 
Head  was  not  misplaced." 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while 
thej  prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the 
wine  upon  it.  She  arose  before  they  had  finished,  and 
taking  a  lamp,  passed  into  the  bed-chamber,  and  into 
the  drawine-room,  where  she  hurriedly  but  narrowly 
examined  all  the  doors;  particularly  one  in  the  former 
room  that  opened  on  the  passage  in  the  wall.  From 
this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on  the  outer  side.  She 
then  came  back. 

The  men— the  second  of  whom  was  a  dark,  bilious 
subject,  in  a  jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a  black  bead 
of  hair  close  cropped — had  completed  their  preparation 
of  the  table,  and  were  standing  lookins^  at  it.  He  who 
had  spoken  before,  inquired  whether  Madame  thought 
it  would  be  long  before  Monsieur  arrived, 

"  She  couldn't  say.     It  was  all  one." 

"  Pardon!  There  was  the  supper!  It  should  be  eaten 
on  the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  French  like  an 
Aneel  —  or  a  Frenchman  —  it  was  all  the  same)  had 
spoken  with  great  emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But 
the  English  nation  had  so  grand  a  genius  for  punctual- 
ity. Ah!  what  noise!  Great  Heaven,  here  was  Mon- 
sieur.    Behold  him! " 

In  effect.  Monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two, 
came,  with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms, 
like  a  mouth;  and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light 
and  color,  a  figure  at  full  length,  embraced  Madame, 
and  addressed  her  in  the  French  tongue  as  his  charm- 
ing wife. 

''My  Qod!  Madame  is  going  to  faint.  Madame  is 
overcome  with  joy  1 "'  The  bald  man  with  the  beard  ob- 
served it,  and  cried  out 

Madame  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the 
'words  were  spoken,  she  was  standing  with  her  band 
upon  the  velvet  back  of  a  great  chair;  ner  figure  drawn 
up  to  its  full  height,  and  her  face  immovable. 

"Francois  has  flown  over  U)  the  Golden  Ht;ad  for 
supper.  He  flies  on  the^e  occasions  like  an  angel  or  a 
bira.  The  baggage  of  Monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All  is 
arranged.  The  supper  will  )m-  hr;re  this  moment."  Th<~ie 


m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

facts  the  bald  man  notified  with  bows  and  smilefl,  and 
presently  the  supper  came. 

The  hot  dishes  were  on  a  chafing-dish;  the  cold  al- 
ready set  forth,  with  the  change  of  eervice  on  a  side- 
board. Monsieur  was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement 
The  supper  table  being  small,  it  pleased  him  verj 
well.  Let  them  set  the  chafing-dish  upon  the  floor, 
and  go.  He  would  remove  the  dishes  with  his  own 
hands. 

"  PardonI "  said  the  bald  man,  politely.  *'  It  was  im- 
possible I" 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.  He  required  no 
further  attendance  that  night. 

"  But  madame  " the  bald  man  hinted. 

*'Madame,"  replied  Monsieur,  "had  her  own  maid. 
It  was  enough," 

"  A  million  pardons!    No!  madame  had  no  maid!" 

"  I  came  here  alone,"  said  Edith.  "  It  waa  my  choice 
to  do  so.  I  am  well  used  to  travelling;  1  want  no  attend- 
ance.    They  need  send  nobody  to  me." 

Monsieur  accordingly,  perseveringin  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to 
the  outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night 
The  bald  man  turning  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out, 
observed  that  madame  still  stood  with  her  hand  upon 
the  velvet  back  of  the  great  chair,  and  that  her  (ace 
was  QUite  regardless  of  him,  though  she  was  looking 
straignt  before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carket'e  fastening  the  door  resoxmded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  come 
hushed  and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound 
of  the  Cathedral  clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with 
it,  in  Edith's  ears.  She  heard  him  pause,  as  if  he 
heard  it  too  and  listened;  and  then  come  back  towards 
her,  laying  a  long  train  of  footsteps  through  the  silence, 
and  shutting  all  the  doors  behind  nim  as  he  came  along. 
Her  hand,  tor  a  nioment,  left  the  velvet  chair  to  bring 
a  knife  within  her  reach  upon  the  table;  then  she  stood 
as  she  had  stood  before. 

"  How  strange  to  come  here  by  yourself,  my  love,"  he 
said  as  he  entered, 

"  Whatl "  she  returned. 

Her  tone  was  so  harsh;  the  quick  turn  of  her  head  so 
fierce;  her  attitude  fto  TeY".A\eviV,  6.xAVfttVt««ws«i'WtM:V.\ 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  339 

'  that  he  stood,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her, 
as  if  she  had  struck  him  motionlese. 

"I  say,"  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the 
lamp,  and  smiling  his  most  courtly  smile,  "now  strange 
to  come  here  alone!  It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely, 
and  might  have  defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  en- 
gaged an  attendant  tB  Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had 
abundance  of  tijne  for  the  purpose,  though  you  had 
been  the  most  capricious  and  difficult  (as  you  are  the 
most  beautiful,  my  love)  of  women." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood 
with  her  hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"  I  have  never,"  resumed  Carker,  "  seen  you  look  so 
handsome,  as  you  do  to-night.  Even  the  picture  I  have 
carried  hi  my  mind  during  this  cruel  probation,  and 
which  I  have  contemplated  night  and  day,  is  exceeded 
by  the  reality!" 

Not  a  word.  Not  a  look.  Her  eyes  completely  hidden 
by  their  drooping  laslies,  but  her  head  held  up, 
-  "Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were!"  said  Carker, 
with  a  smile,  "but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  passed,  and 
make  the  present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily 
shall  be  the  place  of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and 
easiest  part  of  the  world,  my  soul,  we'll  both  seek  com- 
pensation for  old  slavery."  ■ 

He  was  coming  gaily  towards  her,  when,  in  an  in- 
stant, she  caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and 
started  one  pace  back. 

"  Stand  still! "  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  murder  you! " 

The  sudden  change  in  her,  the  towering  fury  and 
intense  abhorrence  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  lighting 
up  her  brow,  made  him  stop  as  if  a  fire  had  stopped 
him. 

"Stand  still!"  she  said,  "come  no  nearer  me,  upon 
your  life!" 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and  as- 
tonishment were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  them, 
and  said  lightly: 

"  Come,  come!  Tush,  we  are  alone,  and  out  of  every- 
body's sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me 
with  these  tricks  of  virtue?" 

'*  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me,"  she  answered  fiftCt^Vj , 
"  from  any  purpose  that  I  hav^,  and  ai:vy  cou.t9«\  »xcv-t^- 
ffolved  upon,  by  reminding  me  of  the  9o\\\.vi<ie  olWiVfe-^^Cftv 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


and  there  being  no  help  near?  Me,  who  am  here  alone, 
designedly?  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  not  have  avoided 
you?    If.l  feared  you,  should  I  be  here,  in  the  dead  of 


the  night,  telling  you  to  your  face  what  I  am  going  to 
tell?" 

"And  what  ie  that,"  he  said,  "  you  handsome  shrew? 
Handsomer  so,  than  any  other  woman  in  her  best  hu- 
mor?" 

"I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  "until  you  go 
back  to  that  chair — except  tiiis,  once  again — Bon  t  come 
near  me!  Not  a  step  nearer.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do,  as 
Heaven  sees  us,  I  shall  murder  you!" 

"  Do  you  mist^e  me  for  your  husband?  "  he  retorted, 
with  a  grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  out,  point- 
ing to  the  chair.  He  bit  his  lip,  frowned,  laughed,  and 
sat  down  in  it,  with  a  baffled,  irresolute,  impatient  air, 
he  was  unable  to  conceal;  and  biting  his  nail  nervously, 
and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  Ditter  discomfituK, 
even  while  ne  feigned  to  be  amused  by  her  caprice. 

She  put  the  koiie  down  upon  the  taole,  and  touching 
her  bosom  with  her  hand,  said: 

"  I  have  something  lying  here  tht^t  is  no  love  trinket: 
and  sooner  than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  I  woula 
use  it  on  you — and  you  know  it,  while  I  speak — with 
less  reluctance  than  I  would  on  any  other  creeping 
thing  that  lives." 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to 
act  her  play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing 
cold.  But  the  secret  look  with  which  ne  regarded  her, 
was  more  sullen  and  lowering,  and  be  struck  his  foot 
once  upon  the  floor  with  a  muttered  oath. 

"  How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest 
glance  upon  him,  "  has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me 
with  outrage  and  insult?  How  many  times,  in  your 
smooth  manner  and  mocking  words  viad  lool^,  have  I 
been  twitted  with  my  courtship  and  my  marriage? 
How  many  times  have  you  laid  bare  my  wound  of  love 
for  that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and  lacerated  it?  How 
often  have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which,  for  two  years, 
I  have  writhed:  and  tempted  me  to  take  a  desperate 
revenge,  when  it  has  most  tortured  me?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "  that  you  have 
kept  a  good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  341 

Come,  Edith.  To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was 
well  eooug^h — " 

"  Why,  if,"  she  said,  surveying  him  with  a  haughty 
contempt  and  disguet,  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  nim 
brave  it  ae  he  would,  "  if  all  my  other  reasonB  for  de- 
spising him  could  have  been  blown  away  like  feathers, 
hiB  having  you  for  his  counsellor  and  favorite  would 
have  almost  be^i  enough  to  hold  their  place." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  why  you  have  run  away  with  me?" 
he  asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"  Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last  time. 
Wretch!  We  meet  to-night,  and  part  to-night.  For 
not  one  moment  after  I  nave  ceased  to  speak,  will  I 
stay  here!" 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped 
the  table  with  nis  hand;  but  neither  rose,  nor  otherwise 
answered  or  threatened  her. 

"I  am  a  woman,"  she  said,  confronting  him  stead- 
fastly, "  who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed 
and  steeled.  I  have  been  offered  and  rejected,  put  up 
and  appraised,  until  my  very  soul  has  sickened.  I  have 
not  haa  an  accomplishment  or  grace  that  might  have 
been  a  resource  to  me,  hut  it  has  been  paraded  and 
vended  to  enhance  my  value,  as  if  the  common  crier 
had  called  it  through  the  streets.  My  poor,  proud 
friends  have  looked  on  and  approved;  and  every  tie 
between  us  has  been  deadened  m  my  breast.  There  is 
not  one  of  them  for  whom  I  care,  as  I  could  care  for  a 
pet-dog.  I  stand  alone  in  the  world,  remembering  well 
what  a  hollow  world  it  has  been  to  me,  and  what  a  hol- 
low part  of  it  I  have  been  myself.  You  know  this, 
and  you  know  that  my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to 
me." 

"  Yes;  I  imagined  that,"  he  said. 

"And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined,  "and  so  pur- 
sued nie.  Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but 
indifference,  to  the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that 
had  moulded  me  to  this;  and  knowing  that  my  marriage 
would  at  least  prevent  their  hawking  of  me  up  and 
down;  I  suffered  myself  to  be  sold  as  infamously  as 
any  woman  with  a  halter  round  her  neck  is  sold  in  any 
market-place.     You  know  that." 

"Yes,  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.  "I  know 
that." 


342  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined  once  more, 
"  and  80  pursued  me.  From  my  marriage  day,  I  found 
myself  exposed  to  such  new  Bhame — to  such  solicitation 
and  pursuit  (expressed  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  writ- 
ten in  the  coarsest  words,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  at 
every  turn)  from  one  mean  villain,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
never  known  humiliation  till  that  time.  This  shiune 
my  husband  fixed  upon  me;  hemmed  me  round  with, 
himself;  steeped  me  in,  with  his  own  hands,  and  of  his 
own  act,  repeated  hundreds  of  times.  And  thus- 
forced  by  the  two  from  every  point  of  rest  I  had — forced 
by  the  two  to  yield  up  the  last  retreat  of  love  and  gen- 
tleness within  me,  or  to  be  a  new  misfortune  on  its 
innocent  object — driven  from  each  to  each,  and  beset 
by  one  when  I  escaped  the  other— my  anger  rose  almost 
to  distraction  aeamst  both.  I  do  not  know  against 
which  it  rose  higher — the  master  or  the  man! " 

He  watched  her  closely^  as  she  stood  before  him  in 
the  very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was 
resolute,  he  saw;  undauntable;  with  no  more  fear  of 
him  than  of  a  worm. 

"  What  should  I  say  of  honor  or  of  chastity  to  you! " 
she  went  on.  "  What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you; 
what  meaning  would  it  have  from  me!  But  if  I  tell 
'ou  that  the  lightest  touch  of  your  hand  makes  my 
ilood  cold  with  antipathy;  that  from  the  hour  when  I 
first  saw  and  hated  you,  to  now,  when  my  instinctive 
repugnance  is  enhanced  by  every  minute's  knowledge 
of  you  I  have  since  had,  you  have  been  a  loathsome 
creature  to  me  which  has  not  its  like  on  earth;  how 
then  ? " 

He  answered,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "  Ay!  How  then, 
my  queen?" 

"  On  that  night,  when,  emboldened  by  the  scene  you 
had  assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak 
to  me,"  she  said,  '*  what  passed?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  again. 

"What  passed?"  she  said. 

"Your  memory  is  so  distinct,"  he  returned,  "that  I 
have  no  doubt  you  can  recall  it." 

"I  can,"  she  said.  "Hear  it!  Proposing  then,  this 
flight — not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it — 
you  told  me  that  in  the  having  given  you  that  meeting, 
andieavingyou  tobediscov6teA^^e^ft,"\\■^wi«l^S^.'c««(^'t 


bl 


.  bOMBEY  AND  SON.  343 

fit;  and  in  the  having  suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me 
many  times  before, — and  having  made  the  opportuni- 
ties, you  said, — and  in  the  havmg  openly  avowed  to 
you  tnat  I  had  no  feeling  for  my  husband  but  aversion, 
and  no  care  for  myself — I  was  lost:  I  had  given  you  the 
power  to  traduce  my  name;  and  I  lived,  in  virtuous 
reputation,  at  the  pleasure  or  your  breath." 

"All  stratf^ems  in  love — "he  interrupted,  smiling. 
"  The  old  adage — " 

"  On  that  night,"  said  Edith,  "  and  then  the  struggle 
that  I  long  had  had  with  something  that  was  not  re- 
spect for  my  good  fame — that  was  I  know  not  what — 
Serhaps  the  clinging  to  that  last  retreat — was  ended. 
'n  that  night,  and  then,  I  turned  from  everything  but 
}>assion  and  resentment.  I  struck  a  blow  that  laid  your 
ofty  master  in  the  dust,  and  set  you  there,  before  me, 
looking  at  me  now,  and  knowing  what  I  mean." 

He  sprung  up  from  his  chair  with  a  great  oath.     She 

Eut  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  not  a  finger  trem- 
led,  not  a  hair  upon  her  head  was  stirred.     He  stood 
still:  she  too:  the  table  and  chair  between  them, 

"  When  I  forget  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine 
that  night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done 
again  to-night,"  said  Edith,  pointing  at  him;  "when  I 
forget  the  taint  of  his  kiss  upon  my  cheek — the  cheek 
that  Florence  would  have  laid  her  guiltless  face  against 
— when  I  forget  my  meeting  with  her,  while  that  taint 
was  hot  upon  me,  and  in  what  a  flood  the  knowledge 
rushed  upon  me  when  I  saw  her,  that  in  releasing  her 
from  the  persecution  I  had  caused  her  by  my  love,  I 
brought  a  shame  and  degradation  on  her  name  through 
mine,  and  in  all  time  to  come  should  be  the  solitary 
figure  representing  in  her  mind  her  first  avoidance  of 
a  guilty  creature — then.  Husband,  from  whom  I  stand 
divorced  henceforth,  I  will  forget  these  last  two  years, 
and  undo  what  I  have  done,  and  undeceive  you!" 

Her  flashing  eyes,  uplifted  for  a  moment,  lighted 
again  on  Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her 
left  hand. 

"  See  these!  "  she  said,  contemptuously,     "  You  have 
addressed  these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by; 
one  here,  some  elsewhere  on  my  road.     The  sea-V*  ».^fc 
unbroken.     Take  them  back'." 
filie  crunched  them  in  her  hanc\,  anA  Vo^?.*-*-  ^i>t\<^Tcv  Nja 


3.U  DOMBEY  AND  SON. . 

his  feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a  smile 
was  on  her  face, 

"  We  meet  and  part  to-night,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
fallen  on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rest,  too  soon.  You 
might  have  cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  trait- 
or's part  a  little  longer,  and  grown  richer.  You  pur- 
chase your  voluptuous  retirement  dear!" 

"EidithT'  he  retorted,  menacing  her  with  his  hand. 
"Sit  down!  Have  done  with  this!  What  devil  posses- 
ses you?" 

"Their  name  is  Legion,"  she  replied,  uprearing  her 
proud  form  as  if  she  would  have  crushea  him;  "you 
and  your  master  have  raised  them  in  a  fruitful  house, 
and  thej  shall  tear  you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his 
innocent  child,  false  every  way  and  everywhere,  go 
forth  and  boast  of  me,  and  gnash  your  teeth  for  once  to 
know  that  you  are  lyingl " 

He  stood  before  her,  muttering  and  menacing,  and 
scowling  round  as  if  for  something  that  would  help  him 
to  conquer  her;  hut  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit 
she  opposed  him,  without  faltering. 

"In  every  vaunt  you  make,"  she  said,  "I  have  my 
triumph.  I  single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  I  know, 
the  parasite  and  tool  of  the  proud  tyrant,  that  his 
wound  may  go  the  deeper  and  may  rankle  more. 
Boast,  and  revenge  me  on  him!  You  know  how  you 
came  here  to-night;  you  know  how  you  stand  cower- 
ing there;  you  see  yourself  in  colors  guite  as  despica- 
ble, if  not  as  odious,  as  those  in  which  I  see  you. 
Boast  then,  and  revenge  me  on  yourself." 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips;  the  wet  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. If  she  would  have  faltered  once,  for  only  one 
half -moment,  he  would  have  pinioned  her;  but  she  was 
as  firm  as  rock,  and  her  searcning  eyes  never  left  him, 

"We  don't  part  so,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  lam 
drivelling,  to  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper?  " 

"Do  you  think,"  she  answered,  "that  I  am  to  be 
stayed?  " 

"  I'll  try,  my  dear,"  he  said  with  a  ferocious  gesture 
of  his  head. 

"  God's  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  hy  coming  near  me! " 
she  replied. 

"And  what,"  he  said,  "if  there  aT«  none  of  these 
same  boasts  and  vaunts  o-\  ti\^  v^"^'-  '«^^'^  W  "V-w^-^^vs 

DigilicJb,  Google 


DOMBKY  AND  SON.  345 

turn  too?  Come!"  and  his  teeth  fairly  ehone  again. 
"  We  must  make  a  treaty  of  this,  or  7  may  take  some 
unexpected  course.     Sit  down,  ait  down!" 

"Too  late!"  she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
sparkle  fire.  "  I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name 
to  the  winds!  I  have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that 
will  attach  to  me — resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches 
faJsely— that  you  know  it  too— and  that  he  does  not, 
never  can,  and  never  shall.  I'll  die  and  make  no  sign. 
For  this  I  am  here  alone  with  you,  at  the  dead  of  night. 
For  this  I  have  met  you  here,in  a  false  name,a8  your  wife. 
For  this,  I  have  been  seen  here  by  those  men  and  left 
here.     Nothing  can  save  you  now.'' 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her 
beauty,  to  the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her 
sides,  and  have  her  at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look 
at  her,  and  not  be  afraid  of  her.  He  saw  a  strength 
within  her  that  was  resistless.  He  saw  that  she  was 
desperate,  and  that  her  unquenchable  hatred  of  him 
would  stoi)  at  nothing.  His  eyes  followed  the  hand  that 
was  put  with  such  rugged  uncongenial  purpose  into  her 
white  bosom,  and  he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at  him, 
and  failed,  it  would  strike  there,  just  as  soon. 

He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  towards  her; 
but  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind  him, 
and  be  stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

"  Lastly  take  my  warning!  look  to  yourself! "  she  said, 
and  smiled  again.  "You  have  been  betrayed,  as  all  be- 
trayers are.  It  has  been  made  known  that  you  are  in 
this  place,  or  were  to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I  live,  I  saw 
my  husband  in  a  carriage  in  the  street  to-night! " 

"Strumpet,  it's  false  I     cried  Carker. 

At  the  moment,  the  bell  rang  loudly  in  the  hall.  Ho 
turned  white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchant- 
ress, at  whose  invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

'■  Hark!  do  you  hear  it!'' " 

He  set  his  back  against  the  door;  for  he  saw  a  change 
in  her,  and  fancied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him. 
But,  in  a  moment,  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite 
doors  communicating  with  the  bed-chamber,  ana  they 
shut  upon  her. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  hex.  "&%  \!awa^\.a. 
sudden  terror,  occasioned  by  this  mg\vt-B\a.Tm,V»A.«>;^- 


316  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ilued  her;  not  the  lesa  readily,  for  her  overwrought  con- 
dition. Throwing  open  the  doors,  he  foHowed,  almost 
instantly. 

But  the  room  was  dark;  and  as  she  made  no  answer 
to  his  call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  H« 
held  it  up,  and  looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to 
see  her  crouching  in  some  corner;  but  the  room  was 
empty.  So,  into  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room  he 
went,  in  succession,  with  the  uncertain  steps  of  a  man 
in  a  strange  place;  looking  fearfully  about,  and  prying 
behind  screens  and  couches;  but  she  was  not  there.  No, 
nor  in  the  hall,  which  was  so  bare  that  he  could  see  that, 
at  a  glance. 

All  this  time,  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly 
renewed,  and  those  without  were  beating  at  the  door. 
He  put  his  lamp  down  at  a  distance,  and  going  near  it, 
listened.  There  were  several  voices  talking  together: 
at  least  two  of  them  in  English;  and  though  the  door 
was  thick,  and  there  was  great  confusion,  he  knew  one 
of  these  too  well  to  doubt  whose  voice  it  was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quickly 
through  alt  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  each,  and 
looking  round  for  her,  with  the  light  raised  above  his 
head.  He  was  standing  thus  in  the  bed-chamber,  when 
the  door,  leading  to  the  little  passage  in  the  wall,  caught 
his  eye.  He  went  to  it,  and  found  it  fastened  on  the 
other  side;  but  she  had  dropped  a  veil  in  going  through, 
and  shut  it  in  the  door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  ringing  at 
the  bell,  and  knockmg  with  their  bands  and  feet. 

He  was  not  a  coward:  but  these  sounds;  what  had  gone 
before;  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had  confused 
him,  even  in  his  return  from  the  hall;  the  frustration  of 
his  schemes  (for,  strange  to  say,  he  would  have  been 
much  bolder,  if  they  had  succeeded);  the  unseasonable 
time;  the  recollection  of  having  no  one  near  to  whom 
he  could  appeal  for  any  friendly  office;  above  all.  Oie 
sudden  sense,  which  made  even  his  heart  beat  like  lead, 
that  the  man  whose  confidence  he  had  outraged,  and 
whom  he  bad  so  treacherously  deceived,  was  there  to  rec- 
ognise and  challenge  him  with  his  mask  plucked  off  his 
face;  struck  a  panic  through  him.  He  tried  the  door,  in 
which  the  veil  was  shut,  but  couldn't  force  it.  He 
opened  one  of  the  winAo^a,  aaft,  \wJ!il%^  ^^s^w  \Vtx<»u£h 

D:,-:c.Jt,C.OOglc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  347 

the  lattice  of  the  blind,  into  the  court-yard;  but  it  was  a 
high  leaj),  and  the  stones  were  i)itiless. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  contiDuing — his  panic 
too — ^he  went  back  to  the  door  in  the  bed-chamber  and 
with  some  new  efforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the 
last,  wrenched  it  open.  Seeing  the  little  staircase  not 
far  ofT,  and  feeling  the  night-air  coming  up,  he  stole 
back  for  his  hat  and  coat,  made  the  door  as  secure 
after  him  as  he  could,  crept  down  lamp  in  hand,  extin- 
guished it  on  seeing  the  street,  and  having  put  it  in  a 
corner,  went  out  where  the  stars  were  shining. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

KOB  THE  ORINDER   LOSB8  HIS  PLACB. 

The  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  court-yard 
from  the  street,  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house 
open,  and  was  gone  away;  no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the 
distant  noise  at  the  door  on  the  great  staircase.  Lifting 
the   latch   softly,  Carker  crept  out,  and   shutting  the 

i 'angling  gate  after  him  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
lurried  off. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  r^e, 
the  panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  com- 
pletely. It  rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  would  have 
blindly  encountered  almost  any  risk  rather  than  meet 
the  man  of  whom,  two  hours  ago,  he  had  been  utterly 
reganlless.  His  fierce  arrival,  which  he  had  never  ex- 
pected; the  sound  of  his  voice;  their  having  been  so 
near  a  meeting  face  to  face;  he  would  have  braved  out 
this,  after  the  Bret  momentary  shock  of  alarm  and  would 
have  put  as  bold  a  front  upon  his  guilt  as  any  villain. 
But  the  springing  of  his  mine  upon  himself  seemed  to 
have  rent  and  shivered  all  his  hardihood  and  self-reli- 
ance. -  Spumed  like  any  reptile;  entrapped  and  mocked; 
turned  upon  and  trodden  down  by  the  proud  woman 
whose  mmd  he  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he  thought, 
until  she  had  simk  into  the  mere  cTea\.uteol\«s.'^fe^ 
uTv;  undeceived  in  his  deceit,  andwifti.\i\a  lo:^%V4&.e, 


348  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

stripped  off,  he  sneaked  away,  abashed,  degraded  and 
afraid. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  removed  from 
this  of  being  pursued,  suddenly  like  ao  electric  shock, 
as  he  was  creeping  through  the  streets.  Some  visionary 
terror,  unintelligible  and  inexplicable,  associated  with  a 
trembling  of  the  ground^a  rush  and  sweep  of  some- 
thing through  the  air,  like  Death  upon  the  wing.  He 
shrunk,  as  if  to  let  the  thing  go  by.  It  was  not  gone,  it 
never  had  been  there,  yet  what  a  startling  horror  it  had 
left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the 
night  sky  where  the  stars  so  full  of  peace  were  shining 
on  him  as  they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the 
air;  and  stopped  to  think  what  he  should  do.  The  dread 
of  being  hunted  in  a  strange  remote  place,  where  the 
]aw8  might  not  protect  him — the  novelty  of  the  feeling 
that  it  was  strange  and  remote,  originating  in  his  being 
left  alone  so  suddenly  amid  the  rums  of  his  plans — his 
greater  dread  of  seeking  refuge  now,  in  Italv  or  in 
Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assassinate  nira,  he 
thought,  at  any  dark  street  comer — the  waywardness 
of  guilt  and  fear — perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action  with 
the  turning  back  of  all  his  schemes — impelled  him  to 
turn  back  too,  and  go  to  England. 

"  I  am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I  should  not  de- 
cide," he  thought,  "to  give  this  fool  a  meeting,  I  am 
less  likely  to  be  traced  there  than  abroad  here  now. 
And  if  I  should  {this  cursed  fit  being  over),  at  least  I 
shall  not  be  alone,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise 
with,  or  stand  by  me.  I  shall  not  be  run  in  upon  and 
worried  like  a  rat." 

He  muttered  Edith's  name  and  clenched  his  hand. 
As  he  crept  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  build- 
ings, he  set  his  teeth  and  muttered  dreadful  impreca- 
tions on  her  head,  and  looked  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
search  of  her.  Thus  he  stole  on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn- 
yard.  The  people  were  a-bed;  but  his  ringing  at  the 
bell  soon  produced  a  man  with  a  lantern,  in  company 
ivith  whom  he  was  presentlv  in  a  dim  coach-house,  bar- 
gaining for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton,  to  Paris. 

The  bargain  was  a  short  one ;  and  the  horses  were  soon 
sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  follow . 
him  when  they  came,  \\e  sViVe  ^.-^a.-^ ,  ^lajos.'Vafe'^'stvi  ^iia 


COMBEY  AND  60N.  349 

town,  past  the  old  ramparts,  out  on  the  open  road,  which 
seemed  to  glide  away  along  the  dark  plain,  like  a  stream! 

Whither  did  it  flow?  .What  was  the  end  of  it?  As 
he  passed,  with  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  look- 
ing over  the  gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked 
out  the  way,  again  that  flight  of  Death  came  rushing 
up,  again  went  on,  impetuous  and  resistless,  again  was 
nothing  but  a  horror  in  his  mind,  dark  as  the  scene  and 
undefined  as  its  remotest  verge. 

There  was  no  wind;  there  was  no  passing  shadow  on 
the  deep  shade  of  the  night;  there  was  no  noise.  The 
city  lay  behind  him,  lighted  here  and  there,  and  starry 
worlds  were  hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof 
that  hardly  made  out  any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark 
and  lonely  distance  lay  around  him  everywhere,  and 
the  clocks  were  faintly  striking  two. 

He  went  forward  for  a  long  time  and  a  long  way; 
often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ringing  of  horses' 
bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now  softer,  and  now 
louder,  now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very  slowly  over  bad 
ground,  now  brisk  and  merry,  it  came  on ;  until  with  a 
loud  shouting  and  lashing,  a  shadowy  postilion  muffled 
to  the  eyes,  checked  his  four  struggling  horses  at  hie 
side. 

"  Who  goes  therel    Monsieur?" 

"Yes." 

"  Monsieur  has  walked  a  long  way  in  the  dark  mid- 
night." 

"No  matter.  Everyone  to  his  taste.  Were  there 
any  other  horses  ordered  at  the  post-house?" 

"A  thousand  devils!— and  pardon!  other  horses?  at 
this  hour?    No." 

"  Listen,  my  friend.  I  am  much  hurried.  Let  us  see 
how  fast  we  can  travel!  The  faster  the  more  money 
there  will  be  to  drink.    Off  we  go  then!    Quick!  " 

"Halloa!  whoop!  Halloa!  Hi!**  Away  at  a  gallop,  over 
the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and  dirt  like 
spray! 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and 
discordance  of  the  fugitive's  ideas.  Nothing  clear  with- 
out and  nothing  clear  within.  Objects  flitting  past, 
merging  into  one  another,  dimly  descried,  coniuaedl^ 
lost  sight  of,  gone!  Beyond  the  changing  scto.-^  tA  l^w^'fe 
nnd  cottage  immediately  upon  the  ToaA,  Sl  Vi^tTVME, 


350  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

waate.  Beyond  the  shifting  images  that  rose  up  in  his 
mind  and  vanished  as  they  showed  themselves,  a  hlack 
expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baffled  villainy.  Occa- 
sionally a  sigh  of  mountain  air  came  from  the  distant 
Jura,  fading  along  the  plain.  Sometimes  that  rush  which 
was  so  furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweeping 
through  his  fancy,  passed  away,  and  left  a  chill  upon 
his  blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses'  heads, 

i 'ambled  with  the  Bhadowy  driver,  aJid  the  fluttering  of 
lis  cloak,  made  a  thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answenng 
to  his  thoughts.  Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping 
at  their  descs  and  books,  in  their  remembered  attitudes; 
strange  apparitions  of  the  man  whom  he  was  flying 
from,  or  of  Edith;  repetitions  in  the  ringing  bells  ana 
rolling  wheels,  of  words  that  had  been  spoken;  con- 
fusions of  time  and  place,  making  last  nigat  a  month 
ago,  a  month  ago  last  night— home  now  distant  beyond 
hope,  now  instantly  accessible;  commotion,  discord, 
hurry,  darkness,  and  confusion  in  his  mind,  and  all 
around  him. — Halloa!  Hi!  away  at  a  gallop  over  the 
black  landscape;  dust  and  dirt  flying  like  spray,  the 
smoking  horses  snorting  and  plunging  as  if  each  of  them 
were  ridden  by  a  demon,  away  in  a  frantic  triumph  on 
the  dark  road — whither! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as 
it  passes,  the  bells  ring  in  hia  ears  "whither?"  The 
wheels  roar  in  his  ears  "  whither?"  All  the  noise  and 
rattle  shapes  itself  into  that  cry.  The  lights  and  shad- 
ows dance  upon  the  horses'  heads  like  imps.  No  stop- 
ping now:  no  slackening!  On,  on!  Away  with  him 
upon  the  dark  road  wildly! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  'He  could  not 
separate  one  subject  of  reflection  from  another,  suffi- 
ciently to  dwell  upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a  minute  at  a 
time.  The  crash  of  his  project  for  the  gaining  of  a 
voluptuous  compensation  for  past  restraint;  the  over- 
throw of  his  treachery  to  one  who  had  been  true  and 
generous  to  him,  but  whose  least  proud  word  and  look 
e  had  treasured  up,  at  interest,  for  years — for  false  and 
subtle  men  will  always  secretly  despise  and  dislike  the 
object  upon  which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent  the 
payment  and  receipt  of  homage  that  they  know  to  be 
worthless;    these  were  the  themes  uppermost  in  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  351 

ad..  A  lurking  rage  against  the  woraan  who  had  so 
>rapped  him  and  avenged  herself  was  always  there; 
ide  and  misshapen  schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her 
ited  in  his  brain;  but  nothing  was  distinct.  A  hurry 
1  contradiction  pervaded  all  his  thoughts.  Even 
ile  he  was  so  busy  with  this  fevereC  ineffectual 
uking,  his  one  constant  idea  was  that  he  would  poet- 
le  reflection  until  some  indefinite  time, 
'hen,  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose 

in  his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  ho 
1  been  of  the  boy,  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  the 
i,  how  artfully  he  had  kept  intruders  at  a  distance, 
i  drawn  a  circle  round  his  dupe  that  none  but  him- 
t  should  cross;  and  then  he  thought,  had  he  done  all 
3  to  be  flying  now,  like  a  scared  thief,  from  only  the 
ir  dupe? 

le  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  cow- 
lice,  but  it  was  the  very  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and 
dd  not  be  separated  from  it.  To  have  his  confidence 
lis  own  knavery  so  shattered  at  a  blow — ^to  be  within 

own  knowledge  such  a  miserable  tool — was  like  be- 

paralysed.  With  an  impotent  ferocity  he  raged  at 
ith,  and  hated  Mr,  Domboy  and  hated  himself,  but 
1  he  fled,  and  could  do  nothing  else. 
Lgain  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
and.  Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming 
louder  and  louder.-  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of 
i,  that  he  cried  out  "  Stop!  "  preferring  even  the  loss 
rround  to  such  uncertainty. 

^e  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver,  all  in 
eap  together,  across  the  road. 

Toe  devil! "  cried  the  driver,  looking  over  his  shoul- 
"  What's  the  matter?" 

Harkl    What's  that?" 

What?" 

That  noise." 

Ah  Heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand!"  to  a  horse 

o  shook  his  bells.     "  What  noise? 

Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a  gallop? 
»re!  what's  that?" 

Miscreant  with  a  pig's  head,  stand  still! "  to  another 
■se,  who  bit  another,  who  frightened  tlie  other  two, 
o  plunged  and  backed.     "There  is  nothing  coming." 

Nothing? " 


35a  DOMBEy  AND  SON. 

"No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder," 

"  You  are  right,  I  think.  I  hear  nothing  now,  indeed. 
Go  on  I " 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reeking 
cloud  from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for  the 
driver,  checked  unnecessarily  in  his  progresB,  sulkily 
takes  out  a  pocket-knife,  and  puta  a  new  lash  to  his 
whip.  Then,  "  Halloa,  whoop!  Halloa,  hi! "  Away  once 
more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered,  and 
standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  discern 
the  tract  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there  was 
no  traveller  within  view,  on  all  the  heavy  expanse. 
And  soon  it  was  broad  day,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine 
on  cornfields  and  vinevar^;  and  solitary  laBorere,  risen 
from  little  temporarv  huts  by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the 
road,  were,  here  and  there,  at  work  repairing  the  high- 
way, or  eating  bread.  By-and-by  there  were  peasants 
going  to  their  daily  labor,  or  to  market,  or  lounging  at 
the  doors  of  poor  cottages,  gEizing  idly  at  him  as  be 
passed.  And  then  there  was  a  post-yard,  ankle-deep  in 
mud,  with  steaming  dunghills  and  vast  outhouses  half 
ruined;  and  looking  on  this  dainty  prospect,  an  im- 
mense, old,  shadeless,  glaring,  stone  cMteau,  with  half 
its  windows  blinded,  and  green  damp  crawling  lazily 
over  it,  from  the  balustraded  terrace  to  the  taper  tips 
of  the  extinguishers  upon  the  turrets. 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  a  comer  of  the  carriage,  and 
only  intent  on  going  fast — except  when  he  stood  up, 
for  a  mile  together,  and  looked  back;  which  he  would 
do  whenever  there  was  a  piece  of  open  country — he 
went  on,  still  postponing  thought  indefinitely,  and  still 
always  tormented  with  thinking  to  no  pulpose. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at 
his  heart;  a  constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken, 
or  met — for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travel- 
lers, who  came  towards  him  by  the  way  he  was  going 
— oppressed  him  heavily.  The  same  intolerable  awe 
and  dread  that  had  come  upon  him,  in  the  night,  re- 
turned unweakened  in  the  day.  The  monotonous  ring- 
ing of  the  bells  and  tramping  of  the  horses;  the 
monotony  of  his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage;  the  mo- 
notonous wheel  of  fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept 
turning  round  and  round;  made  the  journey  like  a 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  353 

vision,  in  which  nothing  was  quite  real  but  his  own 
torment. 

It  was  a  vision  of  long  roads;  that  stretched  away  to 
an  horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained;  of  ill- 
paved  towns,  up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to 
dark  doors  ana  iil-glazed  windows,  and  where  rows 
of  mud-bespattered  cows  and  oxen  were  tied  up  for 
sale  in  the  long  narrow  streets,  butting  and  lowing, 
and  receiving  blows  «i  their  blunt  heads  from  blud- 
geons that  might  have  beaten  them  in;  of  bridges, 
crosses,  churches,  post-yards,  new  horses  being  put  in 
against  their  wills,  and  the  horses  of  the  last  stage  reet- 
ing,  panting,  and  laying  their  drooping  beads  together 
dolefully  at  staVjle  doors;  of  little  cemeteries  with 
black  crosses  settled  sideways  in  the  graves,  and  with- 
ered wreaths  upon  them  dropping  away;  again  of  long, 
long  roads,  dragging  tiiemselves  out,  up  hill  and  down, 
to  the  treacherous  horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset:  night,  and  the  rising 
of  an  early  moon.  Of  long  roads  temporarily  left  be- 
hind, and  a  rough  pavement  reached;  of  battering  and 
clattering  over  it,  and  looking  up,  among  house-roofs, 
at  a  great  church-tower;  of  getting  out  and  eating 
hastily,  and  drinking  draughts  of  wine  that  bad  no 
cheermg  influence;  of  coming  forth  afoot,  among  a  host 
of  beggars — blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by 
old  women  holding  candles  to  their  faces;  idiot  girls; 
the  lame,  the  epileptic,  and  the  palsied — of  passing 
through  the  clamor,  and  looking  n-om  his  seat  at  the 
upturned  countenances  and  outstretched  hands,  with  a 
hurried  dread  of  recognising  some  pursuer  pressing 
forward — of  galloping  away  again,  upon  the  long,  long 
road,  gathered  up,  dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or 
rising  to  see  where  the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a  patch 
of  the  same  endless  road  miles  away,  or  looking  back 
to  see  who  followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  un- 
closed eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a  start,  and  a  reply 
aloud  to  an  imaginary  voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for 
being  there,  for  having  fied,  for  having  let  her  go,  for 
not  having  confronted  and  defied  him.  Of  having  a 
deadly  quarrel  with  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly  with 
himself.  Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood 
as  he  was  carried  on  and  away. 

33-11 


354  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

It  was  a  fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present  all 
confounded  together;  of  his  life  and  journey  blended 
into  one.  Of  being  madly  hurried  somewhere,  whither 
he  must  go.  Of  old  scenes  starting  up  among  the  nov- 
elties through  which  he  travelled.  Of  musing  and 
brooding  over  what  was  past  and  distant,  ajid  seemii^ 
to  take  no  notice  of  the  iictual  objects  he  encounterecC 
but  with  a  wearisome  exhausting  consciousness  of  be- 
ing bewildered  by  them,  and  hu^ing  their  images  all 
crowded  in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A  vision  of  change  upon  chajige,  and  still  the  same 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and 
no  rest.  Of  town  and  country,  post-yards,  horses, 
drivers,  hill  and  valley,  light  and  darkness,  road  and 
I)avement,  height  ana  hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry, 
and  still  the  same  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and 
horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  A  vision  of  tending  on  at 
last,  towards  the  distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and 
sweeping  round,  by  old  cathedrals,  and  dashing 
through  small  towns  and  villages,  less  thinly  scattered 
on  the  road  than  formerly,  ana  sitting  shrouded  in  his 
corner,  with  his  cloak  up  to  his  face,  as  people  passing 
by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and 
always  racked  with  thinking;  of  bemg  unable  to  reckon 
up  the  hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  compre- 
hend the  points  of  time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of 
being  parched  and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing 
on,  in  spite  of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  coming 
into  Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  ite  swift  couiee 
undisturbed,  between  two  brawling  streams  of  life  and 
motion, 

A  troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  intermin- 
able streets;  of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great  crowds 
of  people,  soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  arcades. 
Of  the  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses"  feet 
being  at  length  lost  in  the  universal  din  and  uproeir. 
Of  the  gradual  subsidence  of  that  noise  as  he  passed 
out  in  another  carriage  by  a  different  barrier  from  that 
by  which  he  had  entered.  Of  the  restoration,  as  he 
travelled  on  towards  the  sea-coast,  of  the  monotony  of 
bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

Of  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long  roads 
again,  and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows 

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DOMBBY  AND  SON.  355 

by  the  roadside;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and 
daybreak,'and  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly 
up  a  hill,  and  feeling  on  its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze;  and 
seeing  the  morning  light  upon  the  edges  of  the  distant 
waves.  Of  coming  down  mto  a  harbor  when  the  tide 
was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishing-boats  float  in,  and 
glad  women  and  children  waiting  for  them.  Of  nets 
and  seamen's  clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shore; 
of  busy  sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships' 
masts  and  rigging;  of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of 
the  water,  and  the  universal  sparkhng. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it 
from  the  deck  when  it  was  a  haze  upon  the  water,  with 
here  and  there  a  little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the 
Sun  struck.  Of  the  swell,  ana  flash,  and  murmur  of  the 
calm  sea.  Of  another  grey  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the 
vessel's  track,  fast  growing  clearer  and  higher.  Of 
cliffs  and  buildings,  and  a  windmill,  and  a  church,  be- 
coming more  ana  more  visible  upon  it.  Of  steaming 
on  at  last  into  smooth  water,  and  mooring  to  a  pier 
whence  groups  of  people  looked  down,  greeting  friends 
on  board.  Of  disembarking,  passing  among  them 
quickly,  shunning  every  one;  and  of  being  at  last  again 
in  England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  a 
remote  country  place  he  knew,  and  lying  quiet  there, 
while  he  secretly  informed  himself  of  what  transpired, 
and  determined  how  to  act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned 
condition,  he  remembered  a  certain  station  on  the  rail- 
way, where  he  would  have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of 
destination,  and  where  there  was  a  quiet  inn.  Here  he 
indistinctly  resolved  to  tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a  railway  carriage  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his 
cloak  as  if  he  were  asleep,  was  soon  borne  far  away 
from  the  sea,  and  deep  into  the  inland  green.  Arrived 
at  his  destination  he  looked  out,  and  surveyed  it  care- 
fully. He  was  not  mistaken  in  his  impression  of  the 
place.  It  was  a  retired  spot,  on  the  borders  of  a  little 
wood.  Only  one  house,  newly-built  or  altered  for  the 
purpose,  stood  there,  surrounded  by  its  neat  garden; 
the  small  town  that  was  nearest,  was  some  miles  away. 
Here  he  alighted  then;    and  going  straight  into  the 


356  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tavern,  unobserved  by  any  one,  secured  two  rooms  up- 
stairs communicating  with  each  other  and  sufficiently 
retired.  .  ' 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  command  ot 
himself,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  dis- 
comfiture and  ra^e — so  that,  as  he  walked  about  hia 
room,  he  ground  his  teetli^had  complete  possession  of 
him.  His  thoughts,  not  to  be  stopped  or  directed,  still 
wandered  where  they  would,  and  dragged  him  after 
them.     He  waa  stupefied,  and  he  was  wearied  to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him  that  he  should 
never  rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would  not  lose  their 
consciousness.  He  had  no  more  influence  with  them, 
in  this  regard,  than  if  they  had  been  another  man's.  It 
was  not  that  they  forced  hira  to  take  note  of  present 
sounds  and  objects,  but  that  they  would  not  be  diverted 
from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his  journey.  It  was 
constantly  before  him  all  at  once.  She  stood  there, 
with  her  dark,  disdainful  eyes  again  upon  him;  and  he 
was  riding  on  nevertheless,  through  town  and  country, 
light  and  darkness,  wet  weather  and  dry,  over  road  and 
pavement,  hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded 
and  scared  by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and 
horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

"  What  day  is  this? "  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  who  was 
making  preparation  for  his  dinner. 

"Day,  sir?" 

"  Is  it  Wednesday?" 

"  Wednesday,  sir?    No,  sir.     Thursday,  sir." 

"  I  forgot.  How  goes  the  time?  My  watch  is  unwound." 

"  Wants  a  few  minutes  of  five  o'clock,  sir.  Been 
travelling  a  long  time,  sir,  perhaps?" 

"Yes.' 

"By  rail,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  confusing,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of 
travelling  by  rail  myself,  sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently 
say  so." 

"  Do  many  gentlemen  come  here?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  present 
Rather  slack  just  now,  sir.     Everything  is  slack,  sir." 

He  made  no  answer;  but  had  risen  into  a  sitting  post- 
ure on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned 
forward  with  an  ana  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  357 

ground.  He  could  not  master  his  own  attention  for  a 
minute  together.  It  rushed  away  where  it  would,  but 
it  never,  for  an  instant,  lost  itself  in  sleep. 

He  drank  a  quantity  of  wine  after  dinner,  in  vain.  No 
such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  unmerci- 
fully after  them — as  if  a  wretch,  condemned  to  such  ex- 
{)iation,  were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses.  No  ob- 
ivion  and  no  rest. 

How  long  he  sat  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being 
dragged  in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  could 
have  told  less  correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he 
bad  been  sitting  a  long  time  by  candle-light,  when  be 
started  up  and  listened,  in  a  sudden  terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  Was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook, 
the  house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the 
air!  He  felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by;  and  even 
when  he  had  hurried  to  the  wmdow,  and  saw  what  it 
was,  he  stood,  shrinking  from  it,  as  if  it  were  not  safe 
to  look. 

A  curae  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  so 
smoothly,  tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a  glare 
of  light  and  lurid  smoke,  and  gone!  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  plucked  out  of  its  path,  and  saved  from  being 
torn  asunder.  It  made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even 
now,  when  its  faintest  hum  was  hushed,  and  when 
the  lines  of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the  moonlight, 
running  to  a  point,  were  as  empty  and  as  silent  as  a 
desert. 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted  —  or  he 
thought  so — to  this  road,  he  went  out  and  lounged  on  the 
brink  of  it,  marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone,  by  the 
yet  smoking  cinders  that  were  lying  in  its  track.  After 
a  lounge  of  some  half  hour  in  the  direction  by  which  it 
had  disappeared,  he  turned  and  walked  the  other  way — 
still  keepmgto  the  brink  of  the  road — past  the  inn  gar- 
den, and  a  long  way  down;  looking  curiously  at  the 
bridges,  signals,  lamps,  and  wondering  when  another 
Itevu  would  come  by. 

A  trembling  of  the  ground,  a  quick  vibration  in  his 
ears;  a  distant  shriek;  a  dull  light  advancing,  quickly 
changed  to  two  red  eyes,  and  a  fierce  fire,  dropping 
glowing  coals;  an  irresistible  bearingon  of  a  great  roar- 
ing and  dilating  mass;  a  high  "wind  an^  a.  taSSife — ^%».- 


358  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

other  come  and  gone,  and  tie  holding  to  a  gate,  as  if  to 
save  himself! 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He  walked 
back  to  his  former  point,  and  back  a^ain  to  that,  and 
still,  through  the  wearisome  vision  of  his  joiirney,  looked 
for  these  a^iproaching  monstere.  He  loitered  about  the 
station,  waiting  untiione  should  stay  to  call  there;  and 
when  one  did,  and  was  detached   tor  water,  he  stood 

f>arallel  with  it,  watching  its  heavy  wheels  and  brazen 
ront,  and  thinking  what  a  cruel  power  and  nught  it 
had.  Ugh!  To  see  the  great  wheels  slowly  turning, 
and  to  think  of  being  run  down  and  crushed! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest — that  want 
which  nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would  ap- 
pease— these  ideas  and  objects  assumed  a  diseased  im- 
portance in  his  thoughts.  When  he  went  back  to  his 
room,  which  was  not  until  near  midnight,  they  still 
haunted  him,  and  he  sat  listening  forthe  coming  of  an- 
other. 

So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of 
sleep.  He  still  lay  listening,  and  when  he  felt  the 
trembling  and  vibration,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window, 
to  watch  {as  he  could  from  its  position)  the  dull  light 
changing  to  the  two  red  eyes,  ana  the  fierce  fire  dropping 
glowing  coals,  and  the  rush  of  the  giant  as  it  fled  past, 
and  the  track  of  glare  and  smoke  along  the  valley.  Then 
he  would  glance  in  the  direction  by  which  he  intended 
to  depart  at  sunrise,  as  there  was  no  rest  for  him  there; 
and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be  troubled  by  the  vision 
of  his  journey,  and  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels 
and  horses'  feet,  until  another  came.  This  lasted  all 
night.  So  far  from  resuming  the  mastery  of  himself,  he 
seemed,  if  possible,  to  lose  it  more  and  more,  as  the 
niglit  crept  on.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  he  was 
still  tormented  with  thinking,  still  postponing  thought 
until  he  should  he  in  a  better  state;  the  past,  present, 
and  future  all  floated  confusedly  before  him,  and  he 
had  lost  all  power  of  looking  steadily  at  any  one  of 
them. 

"  At  what  time,"  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited 
on  him  over-night,  now  entering  with  a  candle,  "do  I 
leave  here,  did  you  say?  " 

"  About  a  quarter  after  four,  sir.  Express  comes 
through  at  four,  sir. — Don't  stop." 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  359 

He  passed  his  bfind  across  his  throbbing  head,  and 
looked  at  his  'watch.    Nearly  half -past  three. 

"  Nobody  going  with  you,  sir,  probably,"  observed  the 
man.  "  Two  gentlemen  here,  sir,  but  they  're  waiting 
for  the  train  to  Ijondon." 

"I  thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,"  said 
Carker,  turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old 
smile,  when  he  was  angry  or  suspicious. 

'"  Not  then,  sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  by 
the  short  train  that  stops  here,  sir.    Warm  water,  sir? 

"  No;  and  take  away  the  candle.  There  'a  day  enough 
for  me. " 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  half -dressed,  he 
was  at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold 
light  of  morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was, 
already,  in  the  sky,  the  red  suflfusion  of  the  coming  sun. 
He  bathed  hie  head  and  face  with  water — there  was  no 
cooling  influence  in  it  for  him — hurriedly  put  on  his 
clothes,  paid  what  he  owed,  and  went  out. . 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed 
upon  him.  There  was  a  heavy  dew;  and,  hot  as  he 
was,  it  made  him  shiver.  After  a  glance  at  the  place 
where  he  had  walked  last  night,  ana  at  the  signal-lights 
burning  feebly  in  the  morning,  and  bereft  of  their  sig- 
nificance, he  turned  to  where  the  sun  was  rising,  and 
beheld  it,  in  its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  BO  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely 
solemn.  As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  it,  where  it 
rose,  tranquil  and  serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong 
and  wickedness  on  which  its  beams  had  shone  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  who  shall  say  that  some  weak 
sense  of  virtue  upon  Earth,  and  its  reward  in  Heaven, 
did  not  manifest  itself,  even  to  him?  If  ever  he  remem- 
bered sister  or  brother  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  and 
remorse,  who  shall  say  it  was  not  then? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him. 
He  was  marked  off  from  the  living  world,  and  going 
down  into  his  grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country- 
place  he  had  thought  of;  and  was  walking  to  and  fro, 
alone,  looking  along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley 
in  one  direction,  and  towards  a  dark  bridge  near  at  hand 
in  the  other;  when,  turning  in  his  walk,  where  it  was 
bounded  by  one  end  of  the  wooden  stage  on  which  lie 


360  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

paced  up  and  down,  he  saw  the  man  from  whom  he  had 
Red,  emerging  from  the  door  by  which  he  himself  had 
entered  there.     And  their  eyes  met. 

In  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  stag- 
gered, and  slipped  on  to  the  road  below  him.  But  recov- 
ering bis  feet  immediately,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or 
two  upon  that  road,  to  interpose  some  wider  spac«  be- 
tween them,  and  looked  at  bis  pursuer,  breathing  short 
and  quick. 

He  beard  a  shoul^-another — saw  the  face  change  from 
its  vindictive  passion  to  a  faint  sickness  and  terror- 
felt  the  earth  tremble — knew  in  a  moment  that  the  rush 
was  come — uttered  a  shriek — looked  round — saw  the  red 
eyes,  bleared  and  dim,  in  the  daylight,  close  upon  him 
— was  beaten  down,  caught  up,  and  whirled  away  upon 
a  jagged  mill,  that  spun  him  round  and  round,  and 
strucK  him  limb  from  limb,  and  licked  his  stream  of 
life  up  with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his  mutilated  frag- 
ments in  the  air. 

When  the  traveller  who  had  been  recognised,  recov- 
ered from  a  swoon,  he  saw  them  bringing  from  a 
distance  something  covered,  that  lay  heavy  and  still, 
upon  a  board,  between  four  men,  and  saw  that  others 
drove  some  dogs  away  that  sniffed  upon  the  road,  and 
soaked  bis  blood  up  with  a  train  of  ashes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


The  Midshipman  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susan 
had  arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up-stairs  like  a 
young  woman  bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Sfr.  Toots  and 
the  Chicken  had  gone  into  the  parlor. 

"  Oh  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  Floyl  "  cried 
the  Nipper,  running  into  Florence's  room,  "to think 
that  it  should  come  to  this  and  I  should  find  you  here 
my  own  dear  dove  with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and 
no  home  to  call  your  own  but  never,  never  will  I  go 


DOMEEY  AND  SON.  361 

away  again  Miss  Floy  for  though  I  may  not  gather 
moss  Fm  not  a  rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart  a  stoue  or 
else  it  woiildD't  bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear  oh 
dear! " 

Pouring  out  these  words,  without  the  faintest  indica- 
tion of  a  stop  of  any  sort.  Miss  Nipper,  on  her  knees 
beside  her  mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

"Oh  lovel"  cried  Susan,  "I  know  all  that's  past,  I 
know  it  all  my  tender  pet  and  I'm  a  choking  give  me 
air!" 

"Susan,  dear  good  Susan!  "  said  Florence, 

"Oh  bless  herl  I  that  was  her  little  maid  when  she 
was  a  little  childl  and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going  to 
be  married!"  exclaimed  Susan,  m  a  burst  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  pride  and  grief,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many 
other  conflicting  feelings.    ■ 

"Who  told  you  so?'"  said  Florence. 

"Oh  gracious  mel  that  innocentost  creetur  Toots," 
returned  Susan,  hysterically.  "  I  knew  he  must  be  right 
my  dear,  because  he  took  on  so.  He's  the  <levoteaeRt 
and  innocentest  infant!  And  is  my  darling,"  pursued 
Susan,  with  another  close  embrace  and  buret  of  tears, 
"really,  really  going  to  be  married!" 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  pro- 
tection, and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly 
recurred  to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence, 
raised  her  head  to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  it, 
and  then  laid  her  head  again  upon  her  mistress's 
shoulder,  caressing  her  and  sobbing,  was  as  womanly 
and  good  a  thing,  m  its  way,  as  ever  was  seen  in  the 
world. 

"There,  there!"  said  the  soothing  voice  of  Flor- 
ence presently.  "  Now  you're  quite  yourself,  dear 
Susan ! " 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  at  her  mis- 


tress's feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  with  one  hancl,  and  patting 
Diogenes  with  the  other  as  he  licked  her  face,  confesseu 


to  being  more  composed,  and  laughed  and  cried  a  little 
more  in  proof  of  it. 

"  I — I — I  never  did  see  such  a  creetur  as  that  Toots," 
said  Susan,  "  in  all  my  born  diiys,  never!  " 

"So  kind,"  suggested  FloroTui'. 

"And  so  comic!"  Susan  sobbed.      "TW  'wa.'s  \m^'-^ 


363  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

been  going  on  inside  with  me,  with  that  disrespectable 
Chicken  on  the  box!" 

"About  what,  Suean?"  iuquired  Florence,  timidlr. 

"  Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills, 
and  you  my  dear  Mias  Floy,  and  the  silent  tomb,"  said 
Susan. 

"  The  silent  tomb! "  repeated  Florence. 

"  He  savB,"  here  Susan  burst  into  a  violent  hysterical 
laugh,  "tnat  he'll  go  down  into  It  now,  immediately 
ana  quite  comforttible,  but  bleSs  your  heart  my  dear 
Miss  Floy  he  won't,  he's  a  great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing 
other  people  happy  for  that,  he  may  not  be  a  Solomon. ' 

fursued  the  Nipper,  with  her  usual  volubility,  "  nor  do 
say  he  is,  but  this  I  do  say,  a  less  selfish  human  creat- 
ure numan  nature  never  knewl " 

Miss  Nipper  being  still  hysterical,  laughed  im- 
moderately after  making  this  energetic  declaration, 
and  then  informed  Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below 
to  see  her;  which  would  be  a  rich  repayment  for  the 
trouble  he  had  had  in  his  late  expedition, 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  of  Mr.  Toots  as  a 
favor  that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  him 
for  his  kindness;  and  Susan,  in  a  few  moments,  pro- 
duced that  young  gentleman,  still  very  much  di- 
shevelled in  appearance,  and  stammering  exceedingly. 

"Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "To  be  again 
permitted  to — to — gaze — at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but — I 
don't  exactly  know  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  it's  of 
no  consequence." 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  so  often,"  returned  Florence, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  with  all  her  innocent  grati- 
tude beaming  in  her  face,  "that  I  have  no  words  left, 
and  don't  know  how  to  do  it." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  awful  voice, 
"if  it  was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with 
your  angelic  nature,  curse  me,  j^ou  would — if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  say  so — floor  me  infinitely  less,  than  by  these 
undeserved  expressions  of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon 
me— is — but,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  abruptlv,  "this  is  a 
digression,  and's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this, 
but  by  thanking  him  again,  Florence  tnanked  him 
again. 

"  I  could  wish,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "to  take  this  oppor- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  363 

tunity,  MiBS  Dombey,  if  I  might,  of  entering  into  a 
word  of  explanation.  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure 
of — of  returning  with  Susan  at  an  earlier  period;  but, 
in  the  first  place,  we  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  rela- 
tion to  whose  house  she  had  gone,  and.  in  the  second, 
as  she  had  left  that  relation's  and  gone  to  another  at  a 
distance,  I  think  that  scarcely  anything  short  of  the 
sagacity  of  the  Chicken  woula  have  found  her  out  in 
the  time." 

Florence  was  sure  of  it 

"This,  however,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "is  not  the  point. 
The  company  of  Susan  has  been,  I  assure  you.  Miss 
Dombey,  a  consolation  and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my 
state  of  mind,  more  easily  conceived  than  describea. 
The  ;}oumey  has  been  its  own  reward.  That,  however, 
still,  IS  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  I  have  before  ob- 
served that  I  know  I  am  not  what  is  considered  a  quick 
person.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that.  I  don't  think 
finj'body  could  oe  better  acquainted  with  his  own — if 
if  it  was  not  too  strong  an  expression,  I  should  say  with 
the  thickness  of  his  own — head  than  myself.  But,  Miss 
Dombey,  I  do,  notwithstanding,  perceive  the  state  of — 
of  things — with  Lieutenant  WaJtors.  Whatever  agony 
that  state  of  things  may  have  caused  me  (which  is  of 
no  consequence  at  all),  I  am  bound  to  say,  tnat  Lieuten- 
ant Walters  is  a  person  who  appears  to  be  worthy  of 
the  blessing  that  has  fallen  on  his — on  his  brow.  May 
he  wear  it  long  and  appreciate  it,  as  a  very  different 
and  very  unworthy  individual,  that  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence to  name,  would  have  done!  That,  however, 
still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills  is  a 
friend  of  mine;  and  during  the  interval  that  is  now 
elapsing,  I  believe  it  would  afford  Captain  Gills  pleasure 
to  see  me  occasionally  coming  backwards  and  forwards 
here.  It  would  afford  ifte  pleasure  so  to  come.  But  I 
cannot  forget  that  I  once  committed  myself,  fatally,  at 
the  corner  of  the  Square  at  Brighton;  and  if  my  pres- 
ence will  be,  in  the  least  degree,  unpleasant  to  you,  I 
only  ask  you  to  name  it  to  me  now,  and  assure  you  that 
I  shall  perfectly  understand  you.  I  shall  not  consider 
it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only  be  too  delighted  and 
happy  to  be  honored  with  your  confidence." 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  returned  Florence,  "  if  you,  who  are  so 
old  and  true  a  friend  of  mine,  were  to  alav  a.'wa.'i  \:^<sw. 


364  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

this  house  now,  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It 
can  never,  never,  give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to 
see  you." 

"Mies  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  "if  I  shed  a  tear,  it  is  a  teat  of 
joy.  It  is  of  no  consequence,  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  I  may  be  allowed  to  remark,  after  what 
you  nave  so  kindly  said,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
neglect  my  person  any  longer," 

Florence  received  this  intimation  with  the  prettiest 
expression  of  perplexity  possible. 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "that  I  shall  consider  it 
my  duty,  as  a  fellow-creature  generally,  until  I  am 
claimed  by  the  silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself, 
and  to — to  have  my  boots  as  brightly  polished  as — cir- 
cumstances will  admit  of.  This  is  the  last  time,  Misa 
Dombey,  of  my  intruding  any  observation  of  a  private 
and  personal  nature.  I  thank  you  very  much  mdeed. 
If  I  am  not,  in  a  general  way,  as  sensible  as  my  friends 
could  wish  me  to  oe,  or  as  I  could  wish  myself^  I  really 
am,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  particularly  sensible  of 
what  IS  considerate  and  kind.  I  feel,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
in  an  impassioned  tone,  "as  if  I  could  express  my 
feelings,  at  the  present  moment,  in  a  most  remarkable 
manner,  if^f— I  could  only  get  a  start." 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  waiting  a  minute  or  two 
to  see  if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Toots  took  a  hasty  leave, 
and  went  below  to  seek  the  captain,  whom  he  found  in 
the  shop. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "what  is  now  to 
take  place  between  us,  takes  place  under  the  sacred 
seal  of  confidence.  It  is  the  sequel.  Captain  Gills,  of 
what  has  taken  place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey 
up-stairs." 

"  Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad?"  murmured  the  captain. 

"Exactly  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
fervor  of  acquiescence  was  greatly  heightened  by  his 
entire  ignorance  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  Miss 
Dombey,  I  believe.  Captain  Gills,  is  to  be  shortly  united 
to  Lieutenant  Walters.'*" 

"Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We're  all  shipmets  here, — Wal'r 
and  sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of 
bond^e,  as  soon  as  the  askings  is  over,"  whispered 
Captam  Cuttle,  in  his  ear. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  305 

"  The  askings.  Captain  Gills!  "  repeated  Mr.  Toots. 

"  In  the  church,  down  yonder,"  said  the  captain, 
pointing  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh!    Yes!  "  returned  Mr.  Toots, 

"  And  then,"  said  the  captain,  in  his  hoarse  whisper, 
and  tapping  Mr,  Toots  on  the  chest  with  the  back  of  his 
hand.and  falling  from  him  with  a  look  of  infinite  ad- 
miration, "  what  follers?  That  there  pretty  creetur,  as 
delicately  brought  up  as  a  foreign  bird,  goes  away  upon 
the  roaring  mam  with  Wal'r  on  a  woyage  to  China. 

"Lord,  Captain  Gills!"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"Ay!"  nodded  the  captain.  "The  ship  as  took  him 
up,  when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  that  had 
drove  her  clean  out  of  her  course,  was  a  China  trader, 
and  Wal'r  made  the  woyage,  and  got  into  favor,  aboard 
and  ashore — being  as  smart  and  good  a  lad  as  ever 
stepped — and  so,  the  supercargo  dying  at  Canton,  he 
got  made  (having  acted  as  clerk  atore),  and  now  he's 
aupercai^o  aboard  another  ship,  same  owners.  And  so, 
you  see';"  repeated  the  captain,  thoughtfully,  "  the 
pretty  creetur  goes  away  upon  the  roaring  main  with 
Wal'r,  on  a  woyage  to  Ciiina," 

Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaved  a  sigh  in  concert. 

"What  then?"  said  the  captain.  "She  loves  him  true. 
He  loves  her,  true.  Them  as  should  have  loved  and 
fended  of  her,  treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  as  perish. 
When  she,  cast  out  of  home,  come  here  to  me,  and 
dropped  upon  them  planks,  her  wownded  heart  was 
broke.  I  know  it,  I,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  see  it.  There's 
nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as  can  ever  piece  it 
■Mp  a«ain.  If  so  be  I  didn't  know  that,  and  didn  t  know 
as  Wal'r  was  her  true  love,  brother,  and  she  his,  I'd 
have  these  here  blue  arms  and  legs  chopped  off,  afore  I'd 
let  her  go.  But  I  do  know  it.  and  what  then?  Why,  then. 
I  say,  Heaven  go  with  'em  both,  and  so  it  will!    Amen  I" 

"Captain  Guls,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  hands.  You've  a  way  of  saying 
things,  that  gives  ijie  an  agreeable  warmth,  all  up  my 
back.  I  say  Amen.  You  are  aware,  Captain  Gills, 
that  I,  too,  have  adored  Miss  Dorabey." 

"  Cheer  upl "  said  the  captain,  laying  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Toots's  shoulder.     "Stand  by,  boy!" 

"  It  is  my  intention.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  the 
spirited  Mr.  Toots,  "to  cheer  up.    Also  to  stand h'^ , &■?, 


366  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

much  as  possible.  When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn, 
Captain  Gills,  I  shall  be  ready  for  burieil;  not  before. 
But  not  being  certain,  just  at  present,  of  ray  power  over 
myself,  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  and  what  I  shall  take 
it  as  a  particular  favor  if  you  wUl  mention  to  lieutenant 
Walters,  is  as  follows." 

-"Is  aa  follers,"  echoed  the  captain.     "Steady I "■ 

"Miss  Dombey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Toots  with  watery  eyes,  "  as  to  say  that  my 
presence  is  the  reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you 
and  everybody  here  being  no  less  forbearing  and  toler- 
ant towards  one  who — who  certainly,"  said  Mr,  Toots, 
with  momentary  dejection,  "  would  appear  to  have 
been  born  by  mistake,  I  shall  come  backwards  and  for- 
wards of  an  evening,  during  the  short  time  we  can  all 
be  together.  But  what  I  ask  is  this.  If,  at  any  mo- 
ment, I  find  that  I  cannot  endure  the  contemplation  of 
Lieutenant  Walters's  bliss,  and  should  rush  out,  I  hope, 
Captain  Gills,  that  you  and  he  will  both  consider  it  as 
my  misfortune  and  not  my  fault,  or  the  want  of  inward 
conflict.  That  you'll  feel  convinced  I  bear  no  malice  to 
any  living  creature — least  of  all  to  Lieutenant  Walters 
himself — and  that  you'll  casually  remark  that  I  have 
gone  out  for  a  walk,  or  probably  to  see  what  o'clock  it 
is  by  the  Royal  Exchange.  Captain  Gills,  if  you  could 
enter  into  this  arrangement,  and  could  answer  for  Lieu- 
tenant Walters,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  my  feelings  that 
I  should  think  cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  considerable 
portion  of  my  property." 

"My  lad,  .  returned  the  captain,  "say  no  more. 
There  ain't  a  color  you  can  run  up,  as  won't  be  made' 
out,  and  answered  to,  by  Wal'r  and  self." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "my  mind  is  greatlv 
relieved.  I  wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all 
here.  I — I — mean  well,  upon  my  honor,  however  badly 
I  may  show  it.  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "it's  ex- 
actly as  if  Bui^ess  and  Co.  wished  to  oblige  a  customer 
with  a  most  extraordinary  pair  of  trousers,  and  ccmld 
not  cut  out  what  they  had  in  their  minds," 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a 
little  proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessiDK 
and  departed. 

The  honest  captain,  with  his  Heart's  Delight  in  the 
house,  and  Susan  tending  her,  was  a  bearamg  and  a 


BOMBKY  AND  BON.  M7 

happy  man.  As  the  days  flew  by,  he  grew  more  beam- 
ing and  more  happy,  every  day.  After  some  confer- 
ences with  Susan  (for  whose  wisdom  the  captain  had  a 
Erofound  respect,  and  whose  valiant  precipitation  of 
erself  on  Mrs.  MacStinger  he  could  never  forget),  he 
Eiroposed  to  Florence  that  th^  daughter  of  the  elderly 
ady  who  usually  sat  under  tlie  blue  umbrella  in  Leaa- 
enhall  Market,  should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  con- 
siderations of  privacy,  be  superseded  in  the  temporary 
discbarge  of  the  household  dTuties,  by  some  one  who  was 
not  unknown  to  them,  and  in  whom  they  could  safely 
confide,  Susan,  being  present,  then  named,  in  further- 
ance of  a  suggestion  sne  had  previously  offered  to  the 
captain,  Mrs.  Richards.  Florence  brightened  at  the 
name.  And  Susan,  setting  off  that  very  afternoon  to 
the  Toodle  domicile,  to  sound  Mrs.  Richards,  returned 
in  triumph  the  same  evening,  accompanied  by  the  identi- 
cal rosy-cheeked,  apple-faced  Polly,  whose  demonstra- 
tions, when  brought  into  Florence's  presence,  were 
hardly  less  affectionate  than  those  of  Susan  Nipper 
herself. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished;  from  which 
the  captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did, 
indeed,  from  everything  else  that  was  done,  whatever 
it  happened  to  be;  Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan 
for  their  approaching  separation.  This  was  a  much 
more  difficult  task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was  of  a  resolute 
disposition,  and  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
had  come  back  never  to  be  parted  from  her  old  mistress 
any  more. 

"As  to  wages,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  she  said,  "you 
wouldn't  hint  and  wrong  mo  so  as  think  of  naming 
them,  for  I've  put  money  by  and  wouldn't  sell  my  love 
and  duty  at  a  time  like  this  even  if  the  Savings'  Banks 
and  me  were  total  strangers,  or  the  Banks  were  broke 
to  pieces,  but  you've  never  been  without  me  darling 
from  the  time  your  poor  dear  Ma  was  took  away,  and 
though  I'm  nothing  to  be  boasted  of  you're  used  to 
me,  and  oh  my  dear  mistress  through  so  many  years 
don't  think  of  going  anywhere  without  me,  for  it  mustn't 
and  can't  be! " 
"  Dear  Susan.  I  am  going  on  a  long,  long  voyage." 
"  Well  Miss  Floy,  and  what  of  that?  the  more  you'll 
want  me.      Lengths   of    voyages    ain't    an    object  iu 


368  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

m^  eyes,  thank  Qod!"  said  the  impetuous  Susan 
Nipper. 

"But,  Susan,  I  am  going  with  Walter,  and  I  would  go 
with  Walter  anywhere — everywhere!  Walter  is  poor, 
and  I  am  very  poor,  and  I  must  learn,  now,  both  to  help 
myself,  and  to  help  him." 

"Dear  Mies  Floy!"  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh, 
and  shaking  her  nead  violently,  "it's  nothing  new  to 
you  to  help  yourself  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest 
and  truest  of  noble  hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter 
Gay  and  settle  it  with  him,  for  suffer  you  to  go  away 
across  the  world  alone  I  cannot,  and  I  won't." 

"Alone,  Susan?"  returned  Florence.  "Alone?  and 
Walter  taking  me  with  him!"  Ah,  what  a  bright, 
amazed,  enraptured  smile  was  on  her  face! — He  should 
have  seen  it.  "  I  am  sure  you  will  not  speak  to  Walter, 
if  I  ask  you  not,"  she  added  tenderly;  "  and  pray  don't, 
dear," 

Susan  sobbed  "  why  not,  Miss  Floy?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  going  to  be  his  wife, 
to  give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with  him 
and  die  with  him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to  him 
what  you  have  said  to  me,  that  I  am  afraid  of  what  is 
before  me,  or  that  you  have  some  cause  to  be  afraid  for 
me.    Why,  Susan,  dear,  I  love  him!" 

Miss  Nipper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervor 
of  these  words,  and  the  simple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading 
earnestness  expressed  in  them,  and  making  the  speak- 
er's face  more  beautiful  and  pure  than  ever,  that  she 
could  only  cling  to  her  again,  crying,  Wtis  her  little 
mistress  really,  really  going  to  be  married,  and  pitying, 
caressing,  and  protecting  her,  as  she  had  done  before. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  weak- 
nesses, was  almost  as  capable  of  putting  constraint 
upon  herself  as  of  attacking  the  redoubtable  MacStinger. 
From  that  time,  she  never  returned  to  the  subject,  out 
was  always  cheerful,  active,  bustling,  and  hopeful.  She 
did,  indeed,  inform  Mr.  Toots  privately,  that  she  was 
only  "  keeping  up  "  for  the  time,  and  that  when  it  was 
all  over,  and  Miss  Dombey  was  gone,  she  might  be  ex- 
pected to  become  a  spectacle  distressful;  ana  Mr.  Toots 
did  also  express  that  it  was  his  case  too,  and  that 
they  would  mingle  tlieir  tears  together;  but  she  never 
otherwise  indulged  her  private    feelings  in  the  pres-  ■ 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  369 

ence  of  Florenre  or  witliin  the  precincts  of  the  Mid- 
shi[>nian. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence's  wardrobe  was — what 
a  contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  last  marriage  in 
which  she  had  taken  part! — there  was  a  good  deal  to  do 
in  getting  it  ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  away  at 
her  aide,  all  day.  with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty 
sempstresses.  The  wonderful  contributions  Captain 
Cuttle  would  have  made  to  this  branch  of  the  outfit,  if 
he  had  been  permitted — as  pink  parasols,  tinted  silk 
stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  otlier  articles  no  less  neces- 
sary on  shipboard — would  occupy  some  space  in  the  re- 
cital. He  was  induced,  however,  by  various  fraudu- 
lent representations,  to  limit  his  contributions  to  a  work- 
box  and  dressing-case,  of  each  of  which  he  purchased 
the  very  largest  specimen  that  could  be  got  for  monev. 
For  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  afterwards,  he  generally 
sat,  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  gazing  at  these 
boxes:  divided  oetween  extreme  admiration  of  them, 
and  dejected  misgivings  that  they  were  not  gorgeous 
enough,  and  frequently  diving  out  into  the  street  to 
purchase  some  wild  article  that  he  deemed  necessary  to 
their  completeness.  But  his  master  stroke  was  the 
bearing  of  them  both  off,  suddenly,  one  morning,  and 

fetting  the  two  words  Florence  Gat  engraved  upon  a 
rass  heart  inlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After  this,  he 
smoked  four  pipes  successively  in  the  little  parlor  by 
himself,  and  was  discovered  chuckling,  at  the  expira- 
tion of  as  many  hours. 

Walter  was  ouav  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there 
every  morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  always  passed 
the  evening  with  her.  Florence  never  left  her  high 
rooms  but  to  steal  down-stairs  to  wait  for  him  when  it 
was  his  time  to  come,  or,  sheltered  by  his  proud,  en- 
circling arm,  to  bear  him  company  to  the  door  again, 
and  sometimes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the  twilight 
they  were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time!  Oh  wan- 
dering heart  at  resti  Oh  deep,  exhaustless,  mighty 
well  of  love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk! 

The  cruel  mark  was  on  her  bosom  yet.  It  rose  against 
her  father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her 
and  her  lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But 
she  forgot  it.  In  the  beating  of  that  htmrt  for  her,  and 
in  the  beating  of  her  own  for  him.  all  bai-sher  music 


;t70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

was  unheard,  all  stem  unloving  hearts  forgotten.  Fra- 
gile and  delicate  she  was,  but  with  a  might  of  love 
within  her  that  could,  and  did,  create  a  world  to  fly  to, 
and  to  rest  in,  out  of  his  one  image. 

How  often  did  the  great  house,  and  the  old  dajB, 
come  before  her  in  the  twilight  time,  when  she  was 
sheltered  by  the  arm,  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping 
closer  to  him,  shrunk  withm  it  at  the  recollection;  How 
often,  from  remembering  the  night  when  she  went  down 
to  that  room  and  met  the  never  to  be  foivotten  look,  did 
she  raise  her  eyes  to  those  that  watchea  her  with  such 
loving  earnestness,  and  weep  with  happiness  in  such  a 
refuge!  The  more  she  clung  to  it,  the  more  the  dear 
dea<r child  was  in  her  thoughts;  but  aa  if  the  last  time 
she  had  seen  her  father  had  been  when  he  was  sleep- 
ing and  she  kissed  his  face,  she  always  left  him  so,  and 
never,  in  her  fancy,  passed  that  hour. 

"Walter,  dear,"  said  Florence,  one  evening,  whep  it 
was  almost  dark.  "Do  you  know  what  I  have  been 
thinking  to-day?" 

"  Thinking  how  the  time  is  flying  on,  and  how  soon 
we  shall  be  upon  the  sea.  sweet  Florence?" 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  Walter,  though  I  think  of  that 
too.     I  have  been  thinking  what  a  charge  I  am  to  you." 

"  A  precious,  sacred  charge,  dear  heart!  Why  /think 
that  sometimes." 

"You  are  laughing,  Walter.  I  know  that's  much 
more  in  your  thoughts  than  mine.     But  I  mean  a  cost." 

"  A  coat,  my  own?  " 

'■  In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan 
and  I  are  so  busy  with — I  have  been  able  to  purchase 
very  little  for  myself.  You  were  poor  before.  But 
how  much  poorer  I  shall  make  you,  Walter! " 

"And  how  much  richer,  Florence!" 

Florence  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Besides,"  said  Walter,  "  long  ago — before  I  went  tfl 
Rea-»I  had  a  little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest,  which 
had  money  in  it." 

"  Ah! "  returned  Florence  laughing  sorrowfully, "  very 
little!  Very  little.  Walter!  But,  you  must  not  think, 
and  here  sne  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  face,  "  that  I  regret  to  be  this  burden  on 
you.  No.  dear  love.  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  am  hanpy  in  it. 
I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise  for  all  the  world! 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  371 

"  Nor  I,  indeed,  dear  Florence." 

"  Ayl  But  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  I  do.  I 
am  so  proud  of  you!  It  makes  my  heart  swell  with 
such  delight  to  know  that  those  who  epeak  of  you  must 
say  you  married  a  poor  disowned  girl,  who  had  taken 
shelter  here;  who  had  no  other  home,  no  other  friends; 
who  had  nothine — nothing!  Oh  Walter,  if  I  could  have 
brought  you  millions,  I  never  could  have  been  so  happy 
for  your  sake,  as  I  am! " 

"And  you,  dear  Florence?  are  you  nothing?"  he  re- 
turned, 

"  No,  nothing,  Walter.  Nothing  but  your  wife."  The 
light  hand  stole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came 
nearer — nearer.  "  I  am  nothing  any  more  that  is  not 
you.  1  have  no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  you. 
I  have  nothing  dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you." 

Oh!  well  might  Mr.  Toots  leave  the  little  company 
that  evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watch 
by  the  Royal  Exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  banker  which  he  suddenly  remembered, 
and  once  to  take  a  little  turn  to  Aldgate  Pump  and 
back! 

But  before  he  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed 
before  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter 
said: 

"  Florence  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  fin- 
ished, and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage 
she  will  drop  down  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that 
morning,  and  stay  in  Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at 
Qravesend  within  a  week?" 

"  If  you  please,  Walter.  I  shall  be  happy  anywhere. 
But " 

"Yes,  my  life?" 

"  You  know,"  said  Florence,  "that  we  shall  have  no 
marriage  party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  us  by 
our  dress  from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  ^me 
diiy,  will  you — will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  morn- 
ing, Walter — early^before  we  go  to  church?" 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a  lover 
so  truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  his  ready  promise 
with  a  kiss — with  more  than  one,  perhaps,  or  two  or 
three,  or  five  or  six;  and  in  the  grave,  calm,  peaceful 
evening,  Florence  was  very  happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room  came  Susan  Ni^T^t  ^xA'O^v^ 


373  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

caudles;  shortly  afterwards,  the  tea,  the  captain,  and 
the  excursive  Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioued,  was 
frequently  on  the  move  afterwards,  and  passed  but  a 
restless  evening.  This,  however,  was  not  his  habit:  tor 
he  generally  got  on  very  well,  by  dint  of  playing  at 
cribDaee  with  the  captain  under  the  advice  and  guid- 
ance 01  Miss  Nipper,  and  distracting  his  mind  with  the 
calculations  incidental  to  the  game,  which  he  found 
to  be  a  very  effectual  means  of  utterly  confounding 
himself. 

The  captain's  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession 
of  expression  ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy 
and  his  chivalrous  feeling  towards  Florence,  taught 
him  that  it  was  not  a  time  for  any  boisterous  jollity,  or 
violent  display  of  satisfaction.     Certain  floating  remi- 


niscences of  Lovely  Peg,  on  the  other  hand,  were  con. 
stantly  struggling  for  a  vent,  and  urging  the  captain  ti" 
commit    himself    by   some  irreparable  demonstration. 


Anon,  his  admiration  of  Florence  and  Walter — well- 
matched  truly,  and  full  of  grace  and  interest  in  their 
youth,  and  love,  and  good  looks,  as  they  sat  apart— 
would  take  such  complete  possession  of  him,  that  he 
would  lay  down  his  cards  and  beam  upon  them,  dab- 
bing his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handkerchief: 
until  warned,  perhaps,  by  the  sudden  rushing  forth  of 
Mr.  Toots,  that  he  had  unconsciously  been  very  instru- 
mental indeed,  in  making  that  gentleman  miserable. 
This  reflection  would  make  the  captain  profoundly  mel- 
ancholy, until  the  return  of  Mr.  Toots;  when  he  would 
fall  to  his  cards  again,  with  manv  side  winks  and  nods, 
and  pohte  waves  of  his  hook  at  Sliss  Nipper,  importing 
tliat  he  wasn't  going  to  do  so  any  more.  The  state  that 
ensued  on  this  wasperliaps  his  best;  for  then,  endeav- 
oring to  discharge  all  expression  from  his  face,  he 
would  sit  staring  round  tlie  room,  with  all  these  expres- 
sions conveyed  mto  it  at  once,  and  each  wrestling  with 
the  other.  Delighted  admiration  of  Florence  and  Wal- 
ter always  overthrew  the  rest,  and  remained  victorious 
and  vmdisguised.  unless  Mr.  Toots  made  another  rush 
into  the  air,  and  then  the  captain  would  sit,  like  a  re- 
morseful culprit,  until  he  came  back  again,  occasion- 
ally calling  upon  himself,  in  a  low  reproachful  voire, 
to  "Stand  by!"  or  growling    some  remonstrance  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  373 

"Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,"  on  the  want  of  caution  ob- 
servable in  his  behavior. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots's  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of 
his  own  seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which 
was  to  witness  the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of 
which  the  captain  had  spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  his 
feelings  to  Susan  Nipper, 

"Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,"!  am  drawn  towards  the 
building.  The  words  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dom- 
bey  forever,  will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a  knell,  you 
know,  but  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  feel  that  I  must 
bear  them.  Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "will  you  ac- 
company me  to-morrow  to  the  sacred  edifice?  " 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that 
would  be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought 
him  to  abandon  his  idea  of  going. 

"  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toot8,with  much  solemnity,"  before 
my  whiskers  he^an  to  be  observed  by  anybody  but  my- 
self, I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet  a  victim  to  the 
thraldom  of  Blimber  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  When  I 
could  no  longer  be  kept  out  of  my  property,  in  a  legal 

Soint  of  view,  and — accordingly  came  into  it— I  adored 
[iss  Dombey.  The  bands  which  consign  her  to  Lieu- 
tenant Walters  and  me  to— to  Gloom,  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  after  hesitating  for  a  strong  expression, 
"may  be  dreadful,  will  be  dreadful;  but  I  feel  that  I 
should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken.  I  feel  that  I  should 
wish  to  know  that  the  ground  was  certainly  cut  from 
under  me  and  that  I  hadn't  a  hope  to  cherish,  or  a — or  a 
leg,  in  short,  to — to  go  upon.'' 

Susan  Nipper  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots's 
unfortunate  condition  and  agree,  under  the  circum- 
stances, to  accompany  him;  which  she  did  next  morning. 
The  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose  was  a 
mouldy  old  church  in  a  yard  hemmed  in  by  a  labyrinth 
of  back  streets  and  courts,  with  a  little  burying-ground 
round  it.  and  itself  buried  in  a  kind  of  vault  formed  by 
the  neighboring  houses  and  paved  with  echoing  stones. 
It  was  a  great  dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high  old  oaken 
pews,  among  which  about  a  score  of  people  lost  them- 
selves every  Sunday;  while  the  clergyman's  voice 
drowsily  resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the 
organ  i-umbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had  got  the 
colic  for  want  of  a  congregation  to  kee^p  the  'smi  *\i&. 


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:J74  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  City  church  from  lan- 
guishing for  the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires 
were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  cluster 
on  the  river.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  count  them 
from  its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  almost 
every  yard  and  bhnd-place  near,  there  was  a  church. 
The  confusion  of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  betook 
themselves  towards  it  on  the  Sunday  morning,  was 
deafening.  There  were  twenty  churches  close  together, 
clamoring  for  people  to  come  in. 

The  two  stray  sheep  in  question  were  penned  by  a 
beadle  in  a  commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for 
some  time  counting  the  congregation,  listening  to  the 
disappointed  bell  high  up  in  the  tower,  or  looking  at  a 
shabby  little  old  man,  in  the  porch  behind  the  screen, 
who  was  ringing  the  same,  like  the  bull  in  Cock  Rohm, 
with  his  foot  in  a  stirrup.  Mr.  Toots,  after  a  lengthened 
survey  of  tlie  large  books  on  the  reading-desk,  whis- 
pered Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered  where  the  banns 
were  kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely  shook  her  head 
and  frowned;  repelling  for  the  time  all  approaches  of  a 
temporal  nature. 

Mr.  Toots,  however,  appearing  unable  to  keep  his 
thoughts  from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for 
them  during  the  whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  ser- 
vice. As  the  time  for  reading  them  approached,  the 
poor  young  gentleman  manifested  great  anxiety  and 
trepidation,  which  ^vas  not  dirainisned  by  the  unex- 
pected apparition  of  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery.  Wlien  the  clerk  handed  up  a  list  to  the  clerg>-- 
man,  Mr,  Toots,  being  then  seated,  held  on  by  the  seat 
of  the  pew;  but  when  the  names  of  Walter  Gay  and 
Florence  Dombey  were  read  aloud  as  being  in  the"  third 
and  last  stage  of  that  association,  he  was  so  entircir 
conquered  by  his  feelings  as  to  rush  from  the,  church 
without  his  hat,  followed  by  the  beadle  and  pew-opener 
and  two  gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  present;  of  whom  the  first  named  presently 
returned  for  that  article,  informing  Miss  Nipper  in  a 
whisper  that  she  was  not  to  make  herself  uneasy  about 
the  gentleman,  as  the  gentleman  said  his  indisposition 
was  of  no  consequence. 

Miss  Nipper,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integral  por- 
tion of  JEurope  which  lost  itself  weekly  among  the  high- 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  376 

backed  pews  were  iipon  her,  would  have  been  Euffi- 
ciently  embarraesed  by  this  incident,  though  it  had  ter- 
minated here;  the  more  so,  as  the  captain  in  the  front 
row  of  the  gallery  was  in  a  state  of  unmitigated  con- 
Bciousness  which  could  hardly  fail  to  express  to  the  con- 
gregatioD  that  he  had  some  mysterious  connection  with 
it.  But  the  extreme  restlessneBs  of  Mr.  Toots  painfully 
increased  and  protracted  the  delicacy  of  her  situation. 
That  young  gentleman,  incapable,  in  his  state  of  mind, 
of  remaining  alone  in  the  churchyard,  a  prey  to  solitary 
meditation,  and  also  desirous,  no  doubt,  of  testifying  his 
respect  for  the  offices  he  had  in  some  measure  inter- 
rupted, suddenly  returned — not  coming  back  to  the  pew 
but  stationing  himself  on  a  free  seat  in  the  aisle,  between 
two  elderly  females  who  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
their  portion  of  a  weekly  dole  of  bread  then  set  forth 
on  a  shelf  in  the  porch.  In  this  conjunction  Mr.  Toots 
remained,  greatly  disturbing  the  congregation,  who  felt 
it  impossible  to  avoid  looking  at  him,  until  his  feelings 
overcame  him  again,  when  he  departed  silently  and 
suddenly.  Not  venturing  to  trust  himself  in  the  church 
any  more,  and  yet  wishing  to  have  some  social  partici- 
pation in  what  was  going  on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was,  after 
this,  seen  from  time  to  time  looking  in,  with  a  lorn  aspect, 
at  one  or  other  of  the  windows;  and  as  there  were 
several  windows  accessible  to  him  from  without,  and  as 
his  restlessness  was  very  great,  it  not  onlv  became  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  at  which  window  he  would  appear  next, 
but  likewise  became  necessary,  as  it  were,  for  the  whole 
congregation  to  speculate  upon  the  chances  of  the 
different  windows  during  the  comparative  leisure 
afforded  them  by  the  sermon.  Mr.  Toots's  movements 
in  the  churchyard  were  so  eccentric,  that  he  seemed 
generally  to  defeat  all  calculation,  and  to  appear,  like 
the  conjurer's  figure,  where  he  was  least  expected;  and 
the  effect  of  these  mysterious  presentations  was  much 
increased  by  its  being  difficult  to  him  to  see  in  and  easy 
to  everybody  else  to  see  out;  which  occasioned  his  re- 
maining, every  time,  longer  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected with  his  face  close  to  the  glass,  until  he  all  at 
once  became  aware  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and 
vanished. 

These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the 
strong  individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  ex- 


376  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hibited  by  the  captain,  rendered  Miss  Nipper's  positiMi 
80  responsible  a  one  that  she  was  niightily  relieved  by 
the  conclusion  of  the  service;  and  was  hardly  so  affabk 
to  Mr.  Toots  as  usual,  when  he  informed  her  and  the 
captain,  on  the  way  hack,  that  now  he  was  sure  he  had 
no  hope,  you  know,  he  felt  more  comfortable — at  least 
not  exactly  more  comfortable,  but  more  comfortably 
and  completely  miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  b^,  until  it  was  the 
evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  maxria^. 
They  were  all  assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  Mid- 
shipman's, and  had  no  fear  of  mterruption;  for  there 
were  no  lodgers  in  the  house  now,  and  tne  Midshipman 
had  it  all  to  nimself.  They  were  grave  and  quiet  m  the 
prospect  of  to-morrow,  but  moderately  cheerful  too, 
Florence,  with  Walter  close  beside  her,  was  finishing  a 
little  piece  of  work  intended  as  a  parting  gift  to  the 
captam.  The  captain  was  playing  cribbage  with  Mr. 
Toots.  Mr.  Toots  was  taking  counsel  as  to  his  band  of 
Susan  Nipper.  Miss  Nipper  was  giving  it,  with  all  due 
secrecy  and  circumspection,  Diogenes  was  listening, 
and  occasionally  breaking  out  into  a  gruff,  half-smoth- 
ered fragment  of  a  bark,  of  which  he  afterwards 
f^eemed  half-ashamed,  as  if  be  doubted  having  any  rea- 
son for  it. 

"Steady,  steady!"  said  the  captain  to  Diogenes, 
"  what's  amiss  with  you?  You  don  t  seem  easy  in  your 
mind  to-night,  my  boy!" 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  im- 
mediately afterwards,  and  gave  utterance  to  another 
fragment  of  a  bark;  for  which  he  apologized  to  tlie  cap- 
tain by  again  wagging  his  tail. 

"It's  mv  opinion,  Di,"  said  the  captain,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his 
hook,  "  as  you  have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards;  but 
if  you're  the  animal  I  take  you  to  be,  you'll  think  better 
o'  that;  for  her  looks  is  her  commission.  Now,  brother," 
to  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  so  be  as  you'i-e  ready,  heave  ahead." 

The  captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention 
to  the  game,  but  suddenly  his  cai-ds  dropped  out  of  his 
hand,  his  mouth  and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drew 
themselves  up  and  stuck  out  in  front  of  his  chair,  anii 
he  sat  staring  at  the  door  with  blank  amazement.  I_xx)k- 
ing  round  upon  the  company,  and  seeing  that  none  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  377 

them  observed  him  or  the  cause  of  his  astonishment,  the 
captain  recovered  himself  with  a  ^reat  gasp,  struck  the 
table  a  tremendous  blow,  cried  in  a  stentorian  roar, 
"Sol  Gills  ahoyI"and  tumbled  into  the  arms  of  a, 
weather-beaten  pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly  into 
the  room. 

In  another  moment,  Walter  was  in  the  arms  of 
the  weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  another  moment,  Flor- 
ence was  in  the  arms  of  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat. 
In  another  moment.  Captain  Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs. 
Richards  and  Miss  Nipper,  and  was  violently  shaking 
hands  with  Mr.  Toots,  exclaiming,  as  he  waved  his 
hook  above  his  head,  "  Hooroar,  my  lad,  hooroar! "  To 
which  Mr.  Toots,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  these 

Eroceedinps,  replied  with  great  politeness,  "  Certainly, 
aptain  Gills,  whatever  you.think  proper! " 

The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a  no  less  weather- 
beaten  cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned  from 
the  captain  and  from  Florence  buck  to  Walter,  and 
sounds  came  from  tlie  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap.  and 
comforter,  as  of  an  old  man  sobbing  UDderneatli  theni; 
while  the  shaggy  sleeves  clasped  Walter  tight.  During 
this  pause,  there  was  an  universal  silence,  and  the  cap- 
tain polished  his  nose  with  great  diligence.  But  when 
the  pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted  themselves  up 
again,  Florence  gently  moved  towards  them;  and  she 
and  Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  Instru- 
ment-maker, a  little  thinner  and  more  careworn  than  of 
old,  in  his  old  Welsh  wig  and  his  old  coffee-colored  coat 
and  basket  buttons,  with  his  old  infallible  chronometer 
ticking  away  in  his  pocket. 

"  Chock  full  o'  science,"  said  the  radiant  captain,  "  as 
ever  he  was!  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been 
up  to,  for  this  many  a  long  day,  my  ould  boy?  " 

"  I'm  half  blind,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  almost 
deaf  and  dumb  with  joy." 

"His  wery  woice,"  said  the  captain,  looking  round 
with  an  exultation  to  which  even  nia  face  could  hardly 
render  justice — "  his  wery  woice  as  chock  full  o'  science 
as  ever  it  was!  Sol  Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your  own 
wines  and  fig-trees,  like  a  taut  ould  patriarck  as  you 
are,  and  overhaul  them  there  adwentures  o'  voum,  in 
your  own  formilior  woice.  'Tis  tke  woice,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, impressively,  and  announcing  a  quotation  with  his 


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378  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hook,  "of  the  sluggard,  I  heerd  him  com-plaio,  you 
have  woke  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  a^ain.  Scattei 
his  ene-mies,  and  make  'em  fall! " 

The  captain  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
happily  expressed  the  feeling  of  everybody  present,  and 
immediately  rose  again  to  present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was 
much  disconcerted  By  the  arrival  of  anybody,  appearing 
to  prefer  a  claim  to  the  name  of  Gills. 

"Although,"  stammered  Mr,  Toots,  "I  had  not  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  sir,  before  you  were— 
you  were — " 

"  Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  suggested  the  ci^ 
tain,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Exactly  so,  Captain  Gills!"  assented  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Although  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 
Mr, — Mr.  Sols,"  said  Toots,,  hitting  on  that  name  in  the 
inspiration  of  a  bright  idea,  "before  that  happened,  I 
liave  the  greatest  pleasure,  I  assure  ypu,  in — you  know, 
in  knowing  you.  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you're 
as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

Witli  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Toots  sat  down 
blushing  and  chuckling. 

The  old  Instrument -maker,  seated  in  a  comer  between 
Walter  and  Florence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was 
looking  on,  all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  captain 
thus: 

"Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  boy,  although  I  have  heard 
something  of  the  changes  of  events  here,  from  my 
pleasant  friend  there — what  a  pleasant  face  she  has  to 
he  sure,  to  welcome  a  wanderer  home!"  said  the  old 
man.  breaking  oS,  and  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  old 
dreamy  way. 

' '  Hear  him ! "  cried  the  captain  gravely.  "  'Tis  woman 
:is  seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,"  aside  to  Mr, 
Toots,  "  you'll  overhaul  your  Adam  and  Eve,  brother." 

*'  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said 
Mr.  Toots. 

"  Although  I  have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of 
events  from  her,"  resumed  the  Instrument-maker,  tak- 
ing his  old  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them 
on  his  forehead  in  his  old  manner,  "  they  are  so  ^al 
and  unexpected,  and  I  am  so  overpowered  by  the  sight 
of  my  dear  boy,  and  by  the — "  glancing  at  the  downcast 
eyes  of  Florence,  and  not  attempting  to  finish  the  sen- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  379 

tence — "that  I — I  can't  say  much  to-night  But  my 
dear  Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you  write?" 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  captain's  features 
positively  frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whose  eyes  were  quite 
fixed  by  it,  bo  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from  his 
face. 

"  Write!"  echoed  the  captain.     "Write,  Sol  Gills!  " 

"  At,"  said  the  old  man,  "  either  to  Barbadoes,  or 
Jamaica,  or  Demerara.    That  was  what  I  asked." 

"  What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills! "  repeated  the  captain. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "Don't  you  know,  Ned? 
Sure  you  have  niot  foi^otten?  Every  time  I  wrote  to 
you." 

The  captain  took  off  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  his 
hook,  and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  with  his 
baud,  sat  gazing  at  tne  group  around  him:  a  perfect  im- 
age of  wondering  resignation. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned! "  observed 
old  Sol. 

"  Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  captain,  after  staring  at  him 
and  the  rest  for  a  long  time,  without  speaking,  "I'm 
gone  about  and  adrift.  Pay  out  a  word  or  two  respect- 
ing them  adwenturs,  will  you!  Can't  I  brin^  up,  no- 
hows?  Nohows?"  said  the  captain,  ruminating,  and 
staring  all  round. 

"You  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "why  I  left  here. 
Did  you  open  my  packet,  Ned?  " 

"Why,  ay,  ay,  said  the  captain,  "To  be  sure,  I 
opened  the  packet." 

"And  read  it?"  said  the  old  man. 

"And  read  it."  answered  the  captain,  eyeing  him 
attentively,  and  proceeding  to  quote.it  from  memory. 
"  '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  when  I  left  home  for  the  West 
Indies  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear —  ' 
There  he  sits!  There's  Wal'rl"  said  the  captain,  as  if 
he  were  relieved  by  getting  hold  of  anything  that  was 
real  and  indisputable. 

"Well,  Ned.  Now  attend  a  moment!"  said  the  old 
man.  "  When  I  wrote  first — that  was  from  Barbadoes — 
I  said  that  though  you  would  receive  that  letter  long 
before  the  year  was  out,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
open  thepacket,  as  it  explained  the  reason  of  my  going 
away,  very  good,  Ned.  When  I  wrote  the  second, 
thira,  and  perhaps  the  fourth  times — that  was  from 


380  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Jamaica — I  said  I  was  in  just  the  same  state,  couldn't 
rest,  and  couldn't  come  away  from  that  part  of  tbt 
world,  without  knowing  that  my  boy  was  lost  or  saved. 
When  I  wrote  next — that,  I  think,  was  from  Demerara. 
wasn't  it?" 

"That  lie  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  wam't  it! "  said 
the  captain,  looking^hopelessly  round. 

" — I  said,"  proceeded  old  Sol.  '*  that  still  there  wag  no 
certain  information  got  yet.  That  I  found  many  cap- 
tains and  others,  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  had 
known  me  for  years,  and  who  assisted  me  with  a  jias- 
sage  here  and  there,  and  for  whom  I  was  able,  now  and 
then,  to  do  a  little  in  return,  in  my  own  craft.  That 
every  one  was  sorry  for  me,  and  seemed  to  take  a  son 
of  interest  in  my  wanderings;  and  that  I  began  to 
think  it  would  be  my  fate  to  cruise  about  in  search  of 
tidings  of  my  boy  until  I  died." 

"Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a  scientific  flying 
Dutchman! "  said  the  captain,  as  before,  and  w^ith  great 
seriousness, 

"  But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned, — that  was 
to  Barbadoes,  after  I  got  back  there, — that  a  China 
trader  home'ard  bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy 
aboard,  then,  Ned,  I  took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and 
came  home;  and  arrived  at  home  to-night  to  find  it 
true,  thank  God!  "  said  the  old  man,  devoutly. 

The  captain,  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  rever- 
ence, stared  all  round  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr, 
Toots,  and  ending  with  the  Instrument-maker;  then 
gravely  said: 

"Sol  Qills!  The  observation  as  I'm  a-going  to  make 
is  calc'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry, 
clean  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam 
ends  with  a  lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever 
delivered  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o'  them  letters," 
repeated  the  captain,  to  make  his  declaration  the  more 
solemn  and  impressive,  "  was  ever  delivered  unto 
Ed'ard  Cuttle,  mariner,  of  England,  as  lives  at  home  al 
ease,  and  doth  improve  each  shining  hour! " 

"  And  posted  by  my  own  hand!  And  directed  by  my 
own  hand,  Number  nine.  Brig  Place!"  exclaimed  ol3 
Sol, 

The  color  all  went  out  qf  the  captain's  face,  and  all 
came  back  again  in  a  glow. 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  m 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sol  Gills,  my  friend,  by  Number 
nine.  Brig  Place! "  ini^uired  the  captain. 

"  Mean?  Your  lodgmgs,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"Mrs.  What's-her-name!  I  shall  forget  my  own  name 
next,  but  I  am  behind  the  present  time— I  always  was, 
you  recollect — and  very  much  confused.     Mrs.  —  " 

"Sol  Gills!"  said  the  captain,  ap  if  he -were  putting 
the  most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  "  it  ain't  the 
name  of  MacStinger  as  you're  a  trying  to  remember:"' 

"Of  course  it  is!"'  exclaimed  the  Instrument-maker. 
"  To  be  sure  Ned.     Mrs.  MacStinger! " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as 
they  could  he,  and  the  knobs  upon  wliose  face  were  per- 
fectly luminous,  gave  a  long  shrill  whistle  of  a  most 
melancholy  sound,  and  stood  gazing  at  everybody  in  a 
state  of  speechlessness. 

"  Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so 
kind?  "  he  said  at  last, 

"All  these  letters,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  ujion  the  palm  of 
his  left,  with  a  steadiness  and  distinctness  that  might 
have  done  honor,  even  to  the  infallible  chronometer  in 
his  pocket,  "  I  posted  with  my  own  hand,  and  directed 
with  my  own  hand,  to  Captain  Cutter,  at  Mrs,  Mac- 
Stinger's,  Number  nine,  Brig  Place." 

The  captain  took  his  glazed  hat  off  his  hook,  looked 
into  it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

"Why,  friends  all,"  said  the  captain,  staring  round 
in  the  last  state  of  discomfiture,  "I  cut  and  run  from 
there! " 

"And  no  one  knew  where  you  were  gone.  Captain 
Cuttle?"  cried  Walter,  hastily. 

"Bless  your  heart,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  shaking 
his  head,  "she'd  never  have  allowed  o'  my  coming  to 
take  charge  o'  this  here  property,  Nothmg  could  be 
done  but  cut  and  run.  Lord  love  you,  Wal'r!  "  said  the 
captain,  "you've  only  seen  her  in  a  calml  But  see  her 
when  her  angry  passions  rise— and  make  a  note  on! " 

"  I'd  give  it  her!  "  remarked  the  Nipper,  softly. 

"Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear':' "  returned  the 
captain,  with  feeble  admiration.  "Well,  my  dear,  it 
does  you  credit.  But  there  ain't  no  wild  animal  I 
woul(m't  sooner  face  myself.  I  only  got  my  chest 
away  by  means  of  a  friend  as  nobody's  a  match  for.    It 


382  DOMBEY  ANB  SON. 

was  no  good  sending  any  letter  there.  She  woiildn't 
take  in  any  letter,  bleae  you,"  said  the  captain,  "uoder 
them  circumstances!  why,  you  could  hardly  make  it 
worth  a  man's  while  to  be  the  postman! " 

"Then  it's  pretty  clear,  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us, 
and  you  and  tfncle  Sol  especially,"  said  Walter,  "may 
thank  Mrs.  MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety." 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  the  determined 
relict  of  the  late  Air.  MacStinger,  was  so  apparent,  that 
the  captain  did  not  contest  the  point;  but  oemg  in  some 
measure  ashamed  of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt 
upon  the  subject,  and  Walter  especially  avoided  it,  re- 
membering tne  last  conversation  he  and  the  captaiD 
had  held  together  respecting  it,  he  remained  under  a 
cloud  for  nearly  five  minutes — an  extraordinary  period 
for  him — when  that  sun,  his  face,  broke  out  once  more, 
shining  on  all  beholders  with  extraordinary  brilliancy; 
and  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  shaking  hands  with  everybody 
over  and  over  again. 

At  an  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Walter 
had  questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their 
voyages  and  dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated 
Florence's  room,  and  went  down  to  the  parlor.  Here 
they  were  soon  afterwards  joined  by  Walter,  who  told 
them  Florence  was  a  little  sorrowful  and  heavy-hearted, 
and  had  gone  to  bed.  Though  they  could  not  have  dis- 
turbed her  with  their  voices  down  there,  they  all  spoke 
in  a  whisper  after  this:  and  each,  in  his  different  way, 
felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  towards  Walter's  fair 
young  bride;  and  a  long  explanation  there  was  of  every- 
thing relating  to  her,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle  Sol; 
and  very  sensible  Mr.  Toots  was  of  the  delicacy  with 
which  Walter  made  his  name  and  services  important, 
and  his  presence  necessary  to  their  little  council. 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the 
house  door,  "  we  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  grasping 
his  hand  fervently,  "I  shall  certainly  be  present." 

"  This  is  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  for  a  long  time 
— the  last  night  we  may  ever  meet,"  said  Walter.  "  Such 
a  noble  heart  as  yours,  must  feel,  I  think,  when  another 
heart  is  bound  to  it.  I  hope  you  know  that  I  am  very 
grateful  to  you?" 


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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  383 

"Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  quite  touched.  "1 
should  be  glad  to  feel  tliat  you  had  reasou  to  he  so." 

"Florence,'"  said  Walter,  "on  this  last  night  of  her 
bearing  her  own  name,  has  made  me  proniise^it  was 
only  just  now,  when  you  left  us  together— that  I  would 
tell  you,  with  her  dear  love —  " 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-post,  and  his 
eyes  upon  his  hand. 

" — with  her  dear  love,"  said  Walter,  "that  she  can 
never  have  a  friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you. 
That  the  recollection  of  your  true  consideration  for  hwr 
always,  can  never  be  forgotten  by  her.  That  she  re- 
members you  in  her  prayers  to-night,  and  hopes  that 
you  will  think  of  her  when  slie  is  far  away.  Shall  I  say 
anything  for  you?"    , 

"  Say,  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  indistinctly,  "  that 
I  shall  think  of  her  every  day,  hut  never  without  feeling 
happy  to  know  that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she  loves, 
and  who  loves  her.  Say,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  sure 
her  husband  deserves  her— even  her! — and  that  I  am 
glad  of  her  choice." 

Mr.  Toots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last 
words,  and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said 
them  stoutly.  He  tlien  shook  Walter's  hand  again 
with  a  fervor  that  Walter  was  not  slow  to  return,  and 
started  homeward, 

Mr,  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom  he 
had  of  late  brought  with  him  every  evening,  and  left  in 
the  shop,  with  an  idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances 
might  arise  from  without,  in  which  the  prowess  of  that 
distinguished  character  would  be  of  service  to  the  Mid- 
shipman. The  Chicken  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a  par- 
ticularly good  humor  on  this  occasion.  Either  the 
gas-lamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in  a 
ideous  manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  wlien 
Mr.  Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the 
road  home,  he  was  more  demonstrative  or  aggressive 
intentions  against  the  other  foot-passengers  than  com- 

Sorted  with  a  professor  of  the  peaceml  art  of  self- 
efence.  Arrived  at  home,  instead  of  leaving  Mr. 
Toots  in  his  apartments  when  he  had  escorted  him 
thither,  he  remained  before  him  weighing  his  white 
hat  in  both  hands  by  the  brim,  and  twitching  his  head 


384  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  nose  {botli  of  which  had  been  many  times  broken, 
and  but  indifferently  repaired),  with  an  air  of  decided 
disrespect. 

His  patron,bein^  much  enga^edwitb  his  own  thoughts, 
did  not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed  until  thi' 
Chicken,  determined  not  to  be  overlooked,  had  made 
divers  clicking  sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth  t<i 
attract  attention. 

'•  Now  master,"  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he, 
at  length,  caught  Mr.  Toots's  eye,  "I  want  to  know 
whether  this  here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether 
you're  a  going  in  to  win?" 

"  Chicken,  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  explain  your- 
self." 

"Why  then,  here's  all  about  it,  master."  said  the 
Chicken.  "  I  ain't  a  cove  to-chuck  a  word  away.  Here's 
wot  it  is.    Are  any  on  'em  to  be  doubled  up?" 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  his 
hat,  made  a  dodge  and  a  feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a 
supposed  enemy  a  violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook 
his  head  smartly,  and  recovered  himself. 

"Come,  master,"  said  the  Chicken.  "Is  it  to  be 
gammon  or  pluck?    Which?" 

'■  Chicken,  returned  Mr.  Toots, "  your  expressions  are 
coarse,  and  your  meaning  is  obscure." 

"Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  master,"  said  the 
Chicken.     "This  is  where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"What  is  mean.  Chicken?"  asked  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Chicken,  with  a  frightful  corrugation 
of  his  broken  nose.  "There!  Now,  master!  Wot!  Wen 
you  could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the  stiff  'un; " 
by  which  depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been  since  sup- 

Eosed  that  the  Game  One  intended  to  signify  Mr.  Doni- 
ey;  "  and  when  you  could  knock  the  winner  and  all  the 
kit  of  'era  dead  out  of  wind  and  time,  are  you  going  to 
give  in?  To  give  inf"  said  the  Chicken,  with  con- 
temptuous emphasis.     "Wy,  it's  mean!" 

"Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  severely,  "  you're  a  perfect 
vulture!    Your  sentiments  are  atrocious. 

"  My  sentiments  is  game  and  fancy,  master,"  returned 
the  Chicken,  "That^  wot  mv  sentiments  is.  I  can't 
abear  a  meanness.  I'm  afore  trie  public,  I'm  to  be  heerd 
on  at  the  bar  of  the  Little  Helepnant,  and  no  Gov'ner 
o'  mine  mustn't  go  and  do  what's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean," 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  385 

said  the  Chicken,  with  increased  expression.  "  That's 
where  it  is.    It's  mean." 

"Chicken!"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you  distrust  me." 

"Master,"  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat, 
"there's  a  pair  on  us,  then.  Come!  Here's  a  offer! 
You've  spoke  to  me  more  than  once't  or  twice't  about 
the  public  line.  Never  mind!  Give  me  a  fi'typunnote 
to-morrow,  and  let  me  go," 

"Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "after  the  odious 
sentiments  you  have  expressed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  part 
on  such  terms." 

"Done  then,"  said  the  Chicken.  "It's  a  bargin. 
This  here  conduct  of  yourn  won't  suit  my  book,  master. 
Wy  it's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken;  who  seemed  equally 
unable  to  get  beyond  that  point,  and  to  stop  short  of  it. 
"That's  were  it  is;  it's  meanl " 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this 
incompatibility  of  moral  perception ;  and  Mr.  Toots  lying 
down  to  sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  Florence,  who  had 
thought  of  him  as  her  friend  upon  the  last  night  of  her 
maiden  life,  and  sent  him  her  dear  love. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ANOTHER  WEDDING. 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  and  Mrs.  Miff  the  pew-opener, 
are  early  at  their  posts  in  the  fine  church  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  married.  A  yellow-faced  old  gentleman 
from  India  is  going  to  take  unto  himself  a  young  wife 
this  mormug,  and  six  carriages  full  of  company  ai-e  ex- 

{>ected;  and  Mrs.  Miff  has  been  informed  that  the  yel- 
ow-faced  old  gentleman  could  pare  the  road  to  church 
with  diamonds  and  hardly  miss  them. 

The  nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a  superior  one,  pro- 
ceeding from  a  very  reverend,  a  detm;  and  the  lady  is 
to  be  given  away,  as  an  extraordinary  present,  by  some- 
body who  comes  express  from  the  Horse  Guards. 

Mrs.  Miff  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this 
morning  than  she  generally  is;   and  she  has  alwa.'^?. 

2S-11 


386  DOMEEY  AND  SON. 

strong  opiniouB  od  that  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with 
free  sittmgs.  Mrs.  Miff  is  not  a  student  of  political 
.  economy  ^he  thinks  the  science  is  connected  with  dis- 
sentersj  "Baptists  or  Weeleyans,  or  some  o'  them,"  she 
says),  but  she  can  never  understand  what  business  your 
common  folks  have  to  be  married.  "Drat  'em,"  says 
Mrs.  Miff,  "you  read  the  same  things  over  'em,  and  in- 
stead of  sovereicTis  get  sixpences! " 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  libera^  than  Mrs.  Miff 
— but  then  he  is  not  a  pew-opener.  "  It  must  be  done, 
ma'am,"  he  says.  "We  must  marry  'ena.  We  must 
have  our  national  schools  to  walk  'at  the  head  of,  and 
we  must  have  our  standing  armies.  We  must  marry 
'em,  ma'am,"  says  Mr.  Sownds,  "and  keep  the  country 
going," 

Mr.  Sownds  is  sitting  on  the  steps,  and  Mrs.  Miff  is 
dusting  in  the  church,  when  a  young  couple,  plainly 
dressed,  come  in.  The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff  is 
sharply  turned  towards  them,  for  she  espies  in  this 
early  visit  indications  of  a  run-away  match.  But  they 
don't  want  to  be  married — "  Only,"  says  the  gentleman, 
"to  walk  round  the  church."  And  as  he  slips  a  genteel 
compliment  into  the  palm  of  Mrs,  Miff,  her  vinegary 
face  relaxes,  and  her  mortified  bonnet  and  her  spare 
dry  figure  dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dustine  and  plumps  up  her 
cushions^for  the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  is  reported 
to  have  tender  knees — but  keeps  her  glazed  pew-opening 
eye  on  the  Toung  couple  who  are  walking  round  the 
church.  "Anem,  coughs  Mrs,  Miff,  whose  cough  is 
drier  than  the  hay  in  any  hassock  in  her  charge,  "  you'll 
come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings,  my  dears,  imless  I'm 
much  mistaken!" 

They  are  looking  at  a  tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to 
the  memory  of  some  one  dead.  They  are  a  long  way 
off  from  Mrs.  Miff,  hut  Mrs.  Miff  can  see  with  half  an 
eye  how  she  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  how  his  head  is 
bent  down  over  her.  "Well,  well,"  says  Mrs.  Miff, 
"you  might  do  worse;  for  you're  a  tidypair!" 

There  ts  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff^s  remark.  She 
merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly  more 
curious  m  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a  spare, 
straight,  dry  old  lady — such  a  pejw  of  a  woman — that 
you  should  find  as  many  individual  sympathies  in  a 


DOHBEY  AND  SON.  387 

chip.  Mr.  Sownds,  now,  who  is  fleshy,  and  has  scarlet 
in  his  coat,  is  of  a  different  temperament.  He  says,  as 
they  stand  upon  the  steps. watching  the  young  couple 
away,  that  she  has  a  pretty  figure,  hasn  t  she,  and  as' 
well  as  he  could  see.  {for  she  held  her  head  down  coming 
out),  an  uncommon  pretty  face,  "Altogether,  Mrs. 
Mift,"  says  Mr.  Sownds  with  a  relish,  "she  is  what  you 
may  call  a  rosebud." 

.rMrs.  Miff  assents  with  a  spare  nod  of  her  mortified 
bonnet;  but  approves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly 
resolves  she  wouldn't  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any 
money  he  could  give  her,  beadle  as  he  is. 

And  what  are  the  young  couple  saying  as  they  leave 
the  church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate? 

"Dear  Walter,  thank  youT  I  can  go  away  now, 
happy." 

"And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we  will  come 
and  see  his  grave  again." 

Florence  lifts  her  eyes,  so  bright  with  tears,  to  his 
kind  face;  and  clasps  her  disengaged  hand  on  that  other 
modest  little  hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

"  It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost 
empty  yet.     Let  us  walk," 

"But  you  will  be  so  tired,  my  love." 

"  Oh  no!  I  was  very  tired  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  to-day." 

And  thus — not  much  changed — she,  as  innocent  and 
earnest-hearted — he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more 
proud  of  her — Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal 
morning,  walk  through  the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago,  were  they 
so  far  removed  from  all  tho  world  about  them  as  to-day. 
The  childish  feet  of  long  ago,  did  not  tread  such  en- 
chanted ground  as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and 
love  of  children  may  be  given  many  times,  and  will 
spring  up  in  many  places;  but  the  woman's  heart  of 
Florence,  with  its  xmdivided  treasure,  can  be  yielded 
onlv  once,  and  under  slight  or  change,  can  only  droop 
and  die. 

Tiiey  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest,  and  do  not 
go  near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a  fair, 
warm  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them,  as 
they  walk  towards  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads 
tlie  city.    Riches  are  uncovering  in  shops;  jewels,  gold. 


388  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  silver  flash  iu  the  goldsmith's  sunny  windows;  and 
great  houses  cast  a  stately  shade  upon  them  as  they  pass. 
But  through  the  light,  and  through  the  shfide,  tne;ii'  ea 
on  loving^  together,  lost  to  everything  around;  tmiu- 
ing  of  no  other  riches,  and  no  prouder  home,  than  they 
have  now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker  and  narrower 
streets,  where  the  sun  now  yellow,  and  now  red,  is  seen 
through  the  mist,  only  at  street  comers,  and  in  small 
open  spaces  where  there  is  a  tree,  or  one  of  the  innu- 
merable churches,  or  a  paved  way  and  a  flight  of  steps, 
or  a  curious  little  patch  of  garden,  or  a  burying-ground, 
where  the  few  tombs  and  tomb-atones  are  almost  black. 
Lovingly  and  truBtfuUy,  through  all  the  narrow  yards 
and  alleys  and  the  shady  streets,  Florence  goes,  clinging 
to  his  arm,  to  be  his  wire. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that 
their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a  few  great  stacks 
of  warehouses,  with  wagons  at  the  doors,  and  busy  car- 
men stopping  up  the  way — but  Florence  does  not  see  or 
hear  them — and  then  the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  dark- 
ened, and  she  is  trembling  in  a  church  which  has  a 
strange  smell  like  a  cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed 
bell,  is  standing  in  the  porch,  ana  has  put  his  hat  in  the 
font — for  he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  He 
ushers  them  into  an  old,  brown  panelled,  dusty  vestry, 
like  a  corner  cujjboard  with  the  shelves  taken  out;  where 
the  wormy  registers  diffuse  a  smell  like  faded  snuff, 
which  has  set  the  tearful  Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks, 
in  this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  obiect  near  her 
but  her  husband.  There  is  a  dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps 
a  sort  of  evaporated  news  shop  underneath  an  archway 
opposite,  beliind  a  perfect  fortification  of  posts.  There 
is  a  dusty  old  pew-opener  who  only  keeps  himself,  and 
finds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There  is  a  dusty  old  beadle 
(these  are  Mr,  Toots  "s  beadle  and  pew -opener  of  last  Sun- 
day), who  has  something  to  do  with  a  Worshipful  Com- 
pany who  have  got  a  Hall  in  the  next  yara,  with  a 
stained-glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  ever  saw. 
There  are  dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices  poked  in 
and  out  over  the. altar,  and  over  the  screen  and  round 
the  gallery,  and  over  tlie  inscription  about  what  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  380 

Master  and  Wardens  of  the  Worshipful  Company  did  in 
one  thousand  six  hundred  and  ninety -four.  There  are 
dusty  old  sounding-boards  over  the  pulpit  and  reading- 
desk  looking  like  luis  to  be  let  down  on  the  officiating  min- 
isters, in  case  of  their  giving  offence.  There  is  every 
possible  provision  for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except 
in  the  churchyard,  where  the  facilities  in  that  resp^jct 
are  very  limited. 

The  captain.  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots,  are  come;  the 
clergrman  is  putting  on  his  surplice  in  the  vestry,  while 
the  clerk  walks  round  him,  blowing  the  dust  off  it;  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  altar.  There 
is  no  bridesmaid,  unless  Susan  Nipper  is  one;  and  no 
better  father  than  Captain  Cuttle.  A  man  with  a  wooden 
leg,  chewing  a  faint  apple  and  carrying  a  blue  bag  in 
his  hand,  looks  in  to  see  what  is  going  on  ;  but  finding 
it  nothing  entertaining,  stumps  on  again,  and  pegs  his 
way  among  the  echoes  out  of  doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence, 
kneeling  at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down. 
The  morning  luminary  is  built  out.  and  don't  shine  there. 
There  is  a  meagre  tree  outside,  where  the  sparrows  are 
chirping  a  little;  and  there  is  a  blackbird  in  an  eyelet- 
hole  of  sun  in  a  dyer's  garret,  over  against  the  window, 
who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the  service  is  performing; 
and  there  is  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  stumping 
away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty  clerk  appear,  like  Mac 
beth  8,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a  little;  but  Captain  Cuttle 
helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  goodwill  that 
he  interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses  of  that 
word,  never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in 
one  of  the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman's 
surplice  is  restored  to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is 
gone  home.  In  a  dark  corner  of  the  dark  church,  Flor- 
ence has  turned  to  Susan  Nipper,  and  is  weeping  in  her 
arms.  Mr.  Toots 's  eyes  are  red.  The  captain  luoricates 
his  nose.  Uncle  Sol  has  pulled  down  his  spectacles 
from  his  forehead,  and  walked  out  to  the  door. 

"God  bless  you,  Susan;  dearest  Susan!  If  you  ever 
can  bear  witness  to  the  love  I  have  for  Walter,  and 
the  reason  that  I  have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake. 
Good  by !    Good  by ! " 

They  have  thought  it  bettor  not  to  go  back  to  the 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


300  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Midshipman,  but  to  part  so;  a  coach  is  waiting  for 
them,  near  at  hand. 

Miss  Nipper  cannot  speak;  she  only  sobs  and  chokes, 
and  hugs  ner  mistress.  Mr.  Toots  aavances,  urges  her 
to  cheer  up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives 
him  her  hand — gives  him,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart, 
her  lips — kisses  Uncle  Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  is 
borne  away  by  her  young  husband. 

But  Susan  cannot  Dear  that  Florence  should  go  away 
with  a  mournful  recollection  of  her.  She  had  meant  to 
be  so  different,  tliat  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly. 
Intent  on  making  one  last  eSort  to  redeem  her  charac- 
ter, she  breaks  from  Mr.  Toots  and  runs  away  to  find 
the  coach,  and  show  a  parting  smile.  The  captain, 
divining  her  object,  sets  off  after  her;  for  he  feels  it  his 
duty  also  to  dismiss  them  with  a  cheer,  if  possible. 
Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  are  left  behind  together,  out- 
side the  church,  to  wait  for  them. 

The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow, 
and  blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a  stand-stiU  in 
the  distance,  she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as 
she  flies  down  the  hill,  and  waves  his  glazed  hat  as  a 
general  signal,  which  may  attract  the  nght  coach  and 
may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  captain,  and  comes  up  with  it 
She  looks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Winter,  with  the 
gentle  face  beside  him,  and  claps  her  hands  and 
screams: 

"  Miss  Floy,  my  darling!  look  at  roel  We  are  all  bo 
happy  now,  dear!  One  more  good  by,  my  precious, 
one  more! " 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don't  know,  but  she  reaches 
to  the  window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  arms  about  her 
neck,  in  a  moment. 

*'  We  are  all  so — so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy!" 
savs  Susan,  with  a  suspicious  catching  in  her  breath. 
"You,  you  won't  be  angry  with  me,  now.  Now  will 
you?" 

"Angry,  Susan!" 

"  No,  no;  I  am  sure  you  won't.  I  say  you  won't,  my 
pet,  my  dearest!"  exclaims  Susan;  "and  here's  the 
captain,  too — your  friend  the  captain,  you  know — to  say 
good  by  once  more! " 

"  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight! "  vociferates  the  cap- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3'Jl 

tain,  with  a  countenance  of  strong  emotion.  ;'  Hooroar, 
Warrmy  ladl    Hooroarl    Hooroar!" 

What  with  the  young  husband  at  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other;  the  captain  hanging  on  at 
this  door,  and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that:  the 
coach  obliged  to  go  on  whether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the 
other  cartB  and  coaches  turbulent  because  it  hesitates; 
there  never  was  so  much  confusion  on  four  wheels. 
But  Susan  Nipper  gallantly  maintains  her  point.  She 
keeps  a  smiling  face  upon  her  mistress,  smiling  through 
her  tears,  untilthe  last.  Even  when  she  is  leit  behind, 
the  captain  continues  to  appear  and  disappear  at  the 
door  crying  "Hooroar,  my  lad!  Hooroar,  my  Heart's 
Delight! "  with  his  shirt  collar  in  a  violent  state  of  agi- 
tation, until  it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the 
coach  any  longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone, 
Susan  Nipper  being  rejoined  by  the  captain,  falls  into  a 
state  of  msensibility,  and  is  taken  into  a  baker's  shop 
to  recover. 

Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  church- 
yard sitting  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  railings,  until 
Captain  Cuttle  and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  oeing  at 
all  desirous  to  speak,  or  to  be  spoken  to,  they  are  excel- 
lent company,  and  quite  satisfied.  When  they  all  arrive 
again  at  the  little  Midshipman,  and  sit  down  to  break- 
fast, nobody  can  touch  a  morsel.  Captain  Cuttle  makes 
a  feint  of  heing  voracious  about  toast,  but  gives  it  up  as 
a  swindle,  Mr.  Toots  says,  after  breakfast,  he  will 
come  back  in  the  evening;  and  goes  wandering  about 
the  town  all  day,  with  a  vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if 
he  hadn't  been  to  bed  for  a  fortnight. 

There  is  a  strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
room,  in  which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and 
out  of  which  so  much  is  gone.  It  aggravates,  and  yet 
it  soothes,  the  sorrow  of  separation.  Mr,  Toots  tells 
Susan  Nipper  when  he  comes  at  night,  that  he  hasn't 
been  so  wretched  all  day  long,  and  yet  he  likes  it.  He 
confides  in  Susan  Nipper,  being  alone  with  her,  and  tells 
her  what  his  feelings  were  when  she  gave  him  that 
candid  opinion  as  to  the  probability  of  Miss  Dombey's 
ever  loving  him.  In  the  vein  of  confidence  engendered 
by  these  common  recollections,  and  their  tears,  Mr. 
Toots  proposes  that  they  shall  go  out  together,  and  buy 
sometniug  for  supper.    Miss  Nipper  assenting,  they  buy 


Sn  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  good  many  little  things;  and,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs. 
Richards,  set  the  supper  out  quite  showily  before  the 
captain  and  old  Sol  came  home. 

The  captain  and  old  Sol  have  been  on  board  the  ship, 
and  have  established  Di  there,  and  have  seen  the  cheste 
put  aboard.  They  have  much  to  tell  about  the  popu- 
larity of  Walter,  and  the  comforts  he  will  have  about 
him,  and  the  quiet  way  in  which  it  seems  he  has  been 
working  early  and  late,  to  make  his  cabin  what  the  cap- 
tain calls  "  a  picter,"  to  surprise  his  little  wife.  "  Aaa- 
miral's  cabin,  mind  you,"  says  the  captain,  "  ain't  more 
trim," 

But  one  of  the  captain's  chief  delights  is,  that  he 
knows  the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  tea- 
spoons, are  on  ooard;  and  again  and  again  he  murmurs 
to  himself,  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a 
better  course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that 
there  little  property  over  jintly.  Fom  see  how  the  land 
bore,  Ed'ard,"  says  the  captain,  "  and  it  does  you  credit, 
my  lad." 

The  old  Instrument-maker  is  more  distraught  and 
misty  than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and 
the  parting  very  mucli  to  heart.  But  he  is  greatly  ccm- 
forted  by  having  his  old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side; 
and  he  sits  down  to  supper  with  a  grateful  and  con- 
tented face. 

"  My  boy  has  been  preserved  and  thrives,"  says  old  Sol 
Gills,  ruboing  his  hands,  "  What  right  have  I  to  be 
otherwise  than  thankful  and  happy! " 

The  captain,  who  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the 
table,  but  who  has  been  fidgetting  about  for  some  time, 
and  now  stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubt- 
fully at  Mr.  Gills,  and  says: 

"Sol!  There's  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira  down 
below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  up  to-night,  my  boy, 
and  drink  to  Wal'r  and  his  wife? " 

The  Instrument-maker,  looking  wistfully  at  the  cap- 
tain, puts  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coffee- 
colored  coat,  brings  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  takes  a 
letter  out. 

"  To  Mr.  Dombey."  says  the  old  man.  "  From  Wal- 
ter.   To  be  sent  in  three  weeks'  time.     I'll  read  it." 

"'Sir.  I  am  married  to  j'our  daughter.  She  is 
gone  with  me  upon  a  distant  voyage.    To  be  devoted  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3n:i 

her  is  to  have  no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  Glod  knows 
that  I  am. 

"  '  Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthlv  things.  I  have 
yet,  without  remorse,  united  her  to  the  uncertainties 
and  dangers  of  my  life.  I  will  not  say  to  you.  You 
know  why,  and  you  are  her  father. 

" '  Do  not  reproach  her.  She  has  never  reproached 
you, 

"  '  I  do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  ever  forgive 
me.  There  is  nothing  I  expect  less.  But  if  an  hour 
should  come  when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that 
Florence  has  some  one  ever  near  her,  the  great  charge 
of  whose  life  is  to  cancel  her  remembrance  of  past  sor- 
row, I  solemnly  assure  you,  you  may,  in  that  hour,  rest 
in  that  belief.'*' 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and  puts  back  his  pocket-book  in  his  coat. 

"We  won't  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
yet,  Ned,"  says  the  old  man  thoughtfully.     "  Not  yet." 

"  Not  yet."  assents  the  captain.     "  No.     Not  yet." 

Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After 
a  silence  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the 
young  husband  and  wife  in  something  else;  and  the  last 
bottle  of  the  old  Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dust 
and  cobwebs,  undisturbed. 

A  few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a  stately  ship  is  out  at 
sea,  spreadmg  its  white  wings  to  the  favoring'  wind. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board 
of  something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless 
— something  that  it  is  good  and  pleasant  to  have  there, 
and  that  should  make  the  voyage  prosperous^is  Flor- 
ence. It  is  night,  and  she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watch- 
ing the  solenm  path  of  light  upon  the  sea  between  them 
and  the  moon. 

At  length  she  cannot  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that 
fill  her  eyes;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  his 
breast,  and  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying, 
"  Oh  Walter,  dearest  love,  I  am  so  happy!" 

Her  husband  holds  her  to  his  heart,  and  they  are  very 
quiet,  and  the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

"  As  I  hear  the  sea,"  says  Florence,  "  and  sit  watching 
it,  it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes  me 
think  so  much — " 


39i  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Of  Paul,  my  love.    I  know  it  does." 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  waves 
are  always  whispering  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless 
murmuring,  of  love — of  love,  eternal  and  illimitable, 
not  bounded  by  the  confines  of  this  world,  or  by  the 
end  of  time,  but  ranging  still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond 
the  sky,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away! 


CHAPTER   XXVin. 

AFTER  A  LAPSE. 

The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a  whole  year. 
Through  a  whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come 
and  gone;  the  ceaseless  work  of  Time  had  been  per- 
formed, in  storm  and  sunshine.  Through  a  whole  year, 
the  tides  of  human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their 
allotted  courses.  Through  a  whole  year,  the  famous 
House  of  Dombey  and  Son  had  fought  a  flght  for  life, 
against  cross  accidents,  doubtful  rumors,  unsuccessful 
ventures,  unpropitious  times,  and  most  of  all,  against 
the  infatuation  of  its  head,  who  would  not  contract  it« 
enterprises  by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  w^ould  not  listen  to 
a  word  of  warning  that  the  ship  he  strained  so  hard 
against  the  storm,  was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  it. 

The  year  was  out,  and  the  great  House  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon;  a  year,  wanting  some  odd 
days,  after  the  marriage  in  the  City  church;  there  was 
a  buzz  and  whisper  upon  'Change  of  a  great  failure.  A 
certain  cold  proud  man,  well  known  there,  was  not 
there,  nor  was  he  represented  there.  Next  day  it  was 
noised  abroad  that  Dombey  and  Son  had  stopped,  and 
next  night  there  was  a  list  of  bankrupts  published, 
headed  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a 
deal  to  say.  It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a  much 
ill  used  world.  It  was  a  world  m  which  there  was  no 
other  sort  of  bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no 
conspicuous  people  in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten 
banks  of  religion,  patriotism,  virtue,  honor.     There  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  395 

no  amount  worth  mentioning  of  mere  paper  in  circula- 
tion, ou  whicli  anybody  liveii  pretty  hanasomely,  prom- 
ising to  pay  great  sums  of  goodness  with  no  effects. 
There  were  no  short-comings  anywhere,  in  anything 
but  money.  The  world  was  very  angry,  indei'u;  and 
the  people  especially,  who,  in  a  worse  world,  might 
have  been  supposed  to  be  bankrupt  traders  themselves 
in  shows  and  pretences,  were  observed  to  be  mightily 
indignant. 

Here  was  a  new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented 
to  that  sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  Perch  the  messengerl 
It  was  apparently  the  fate  of  Mr.  Percli  to  be  always 
waking  up,  and  finding  himself  famous.  He  had  but 
yesterday,  as  one  might  say,  subsided  into  private  life 
from  the  celebrity  of  the  elopement  and  the  events  that 
followed  it;  and  now  he  was  made  a  more  important 
man  than  ever,  by  the  bankruptcy.  Gliding  from  his 
bracket  in  the  outer  office  where  he  now  sat,  watching 
the  strange  faces  of  accountants  and  others,  who  quickly 
superseded  nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr.  Perch  had  but 
to  show  himself  in  the  court  outside,  or  at  farthest,  in 
the  bar  of  the  King's  Arms,  to  be  asked  a  multitude  of 
questions,  almost  certain  to  include  that  interesting 
question,  what  would  he  take  to  drink?  Then  would 
Mr.  Perch  descant  upon  the  hours  of  acute  uneasiness 
he  and  Mrs.  Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Balls  Pond,  when 
they  first  suspected  "  things  was  going  wrong."  Then 
would  Mr.  Perch  relate  to  gaping  listeners,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  if  the  corpse  of  the  aeceased  House  were  lying 
unburied  in  the  next  room,  how  Mrs.  Perch  liad  first 
come  to  surmise  that  things  was  going  wrong  by  hear- 
ing him  (Perch)  moaning  in  his  sleep,  "twelve  and 
ninepence  in  the  pound,  twelve  and  ninepence  in  the 
pound!"  Which  act  of  somnambulism  he  supposed  to 
have  originated  in  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the 
change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  Then  would  he  inform 
them  how  he  had  once  said,  "Might  I  make  so  bold  as 
ask,  sir,  are  you  unhappy  in  your  mind?"  and  how  Mr. 
Dombey  had  replied,  "My  faithful  Perch — hut  no,  it 
cannot  be! "  and  with  that  had  struck  his  band  upon  his 
forehead,  and  said,  "Leave  me.  Perch!"  Then,  in 
short,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a  victim  to  his  position,  tell  all 
manner  of  liesj  affecting  himself  to  tears  by  those  that 
were  of  a  moving  nature,  and  reaWy  XieWe^vcvs^  'CaaS*  ■<&»" 


390  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repetition,  a  sort  of 
truth  about  them  to-day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meekly 
remarking,  That,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions 
might  have  been,  (as  if  he  had  ever  had  anv!)  it  wasn't 
for  him  to  betray  his  trust — was  it?  Whicn  sentiment 
(there  never  being  any  creditors  present)  was  received 
as  doing  great  lionor  to  liis  feelings.  Thus,  he  genemlly 
brought  away  a  soothed  conscience  and  left  an  agree- 
able impression  behind  him,  when  he  returned  to  his 
bracket:  again  to  sit  watching  the  strange  faces  of  the 
accountants  and  others,  makmg  so  free  with  the  great 
mysteries,  the  Books;  or  now  and  then  to  go  on-  tiptoe 
into  Mr.  Dombey's  empty  room,  and  stir  the  fire;  or  to 
take  an  airing  at  the  door,  and  have  a  little  more  dole- 
ful chat  with  any  straggler  whom  lie  knew;  or  to  pro- 
pitiate, with  various  small  attentions,  the  head  ac- 
countant: from  whom  Mr.  Perch  had  expectations  of  a 
messengership  in  a  Fire  OflSce,  when  the  affairs  of  the 
House  sliould  be  wound  up. 

To  Major  Bagstock,  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a 
calamity.  The  major  was  not  a  sympathetic  character 
— his  attention  being  wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B. — nor 
was  ho  a  man  subject  to  lively  emotions,  except  in  the 
physical  regards  of  gasping  and  choking.  But  he  had 
so  paraded  his  friend  Dombey  at  the  club;  had  so 
flourished  him  at  tlie  heads  of  the  members  in  general, 
and  so  put  them  down  by  continual  assertion  of  his 
riches;  tnat  the  club,  being  but  human,  was  delighted 
to  retort  upon  the  major,  by  asking  him,  with  a  show  of 
great  concern,  whether  this  tremendous  smash  had  been 
at  all  expected,  and  how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To 
such  questions,  the  major,  waxing  very  purple,  would 
reply  tliat  it  was  a  bad  world,  sir,  altogether;  that  Joey 
knew  a  thing  or  two,  but  had  been  done,  sir,  done  like 
an  infant;  that  if  you  had  foretold  this,  sir,  to  J. 
Bagstock,  when  he  went  abroad  with  Dombey  and  was 
chasing  that  vagabond  up  and  down  France,  J.  Bagstock 
would  nave  pooh-pooh "d  you — would  have  pooh-pooh'd 
you,  sir,  by  tlie  Lord!  That  Joe  had  been  deceived,  sir, 
taken  in,  hoodwinked,  blindfolded,  but  was  broad  awake 
again,  and  staring;  insomuch,  sir,  that  if  Joe's  father 
were  to  rise  up  from  .the  grave  to-morrow,  he  wouldn't 
trust  the  old  olade  with  a  penny  piece,  but  would  tell 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  397 

him  that  his  son  Josh  was  too  old  a  Boldier  to  be  done 
again,  sir.  That  he  was  a  suspicious,  crabbed,  cranky, 
used-up,  J.  B.  infidel,  sir;  and  that  if  it  were  consistent 
with  the  dignity  of  a  rough  and  tough  old  major,  of  the  old, 
school,  who  had  had  the  honor  of  being  personally  known 
to,  and  commended  by,  their  late  Royal  Highnesses  the 
Dukes  of  Kent  and  York,  to  retire  to  a  tub  and  live  in 
it,  by  Gad!  sir,  he'd  have  a  tub  in  Pall  Mall  to-morrow, 
to  show  his  contempt  for  mankind! 

Of  all  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tune,  the 
major  would  deliver  himself  with  bo  many  apoplectic 
symptoms,  such  rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent 
growls  of  ill  usage  and  resentment,  that  the  younger 
members  of  the  club  surmised  he  had  invested  money  in 
his  friend  Dombey's  House,  and  lost  it;  though  the  older 
soldiers  and  deeper  dogs,  who  knew  Joe  better,  wouldn't 
hear  of  such  a  thing.  The  unfortunate  native,  express- 
ing no  opinion,  suffered  dreadfully:  not  merely  m  his 
naoral  feelings,  which  were  regularly  fusilladea  by  the 
major  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled  through  and 
through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to  bodily  knocKs  and 
bumps,  which  was  kept  continually  on  the  stretch.  For 
six  entire  weeks  after  the  bankruptcy,  this  miserable 
foreigner  lived  in  a  rainy  season  of  boot-jacks  and 
brushes. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the 
terrible  reverse.  The  first  was  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand it.  The  second,  that  her  brother  had  not  made  an 
effort.  The  third,  that  if  she  had  been  invited  to  dinner 
on  the  day  of  that  first  party,  it  never  would  have  hap- 
pened; and  that  she  had  said  so  at  the  time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it. 
or  made  it  heavier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affairs 
of  the  House  were  to  be  wound  up  as  best  they  couhl 
be;  that  Mr.  Dorabey  freely  resigned  everything  he  had 
and  asked  for  no  favor  from  any  one.  That  any  resump- 
tion of  business  was  out  of  the  question,  as  he  would 
listen  to  no  friendly  negotiation  having  that  compromise 
in  view;  that  he  had  relinquished  every  post  of  trust  or 
distinction  he  had  held,  as  a  man  respected  among  mer- 
chants; that  he  was  dying,  according  to  some;  that  he 
was  going  melancholy  mad,  according  to  others;  that 
he  was  a  broken  man,  according  to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a  \\tt.\e  &\\ai^'«  "^V 


398  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

condolence  among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by 
comic  singing,  and  went  off  admirably.     Some  took 

S laces  abroad,  and  some  engaged  in  t)ther  houses  at 
ome;  some  looked  up  relations  in  the  country,  for 
whom  they  suddenly  remembered  they  had  a  particular 
a£Fection,  and  some  advertised  for  employment  in  the 
newspapers:  Mr.  Perch  alone  remained  of  all  the  lat« 
establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket  looking  at  the  ac- 
countants, or  starting  oflF  it,  to  propitiate  the  head  ac- 
countant, who  was  to  get  him  into  the  Fire  Office.  The 
counting-house  soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neglected.  The 
princip£U  slipper  and  dogs'  collar  seller,  at  the  comer  of 
the  court,  would  have  doubted  the  propriety  of  throw- 
ing up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his  hat  any  more, 
if  Mr.  Dombey  had  appeared  there  now ;  and  the  ticket 
porter,  with  his  hands  under  his  white  apron,  moralised 
good  sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  observetl) 
was  not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  perdition,  for 
nothing. 

Mr.  Morfin  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
whiskers  sprinkled  with  grey,  was-  perhaps  the  only 
person  within  the  atmosphere  of  the  House — its  head, 
of  course,  excepted — who  was  heartily  and  deeply 
aflTected  by  the  disaster  that  had  befallen  tt.  He  had 
treated  Mr,  Dombey  with  due  respect  and  deference 
through  many  years,  but  he  had  never  disguised  his 
natural  character,  or  meanly  truckled  to  him,  or  pam- 
pered his  master  passion  for  the  advancement  or  his 
own  purposes.  He  had,  therefore,  no'  self-disrespect  to 
avenge;  no  long-tightened  springs  to  release  with  a  quick 
recoil.  He  worked  early  and  late  to  unravel  whatever 
was  complicated  or  difficult  in  the  records  of  the  trans- 
actions 01  the  House;  was  always  in  attendance  to  ex- 
plain whatever  required  explanation ;  sat  in  his  old  room 
sometimes  very  late  at  night,  studying  points  by  his 
mastery  of  which  he  could  spare  Mr.  Dombey  the  pain 
of  being  personally  referred  to;  and  then  would  go 
home  to  Islmgton,  and  calm  hi*  mind  by  producing  the 
most  dismal  and  forlorn  sounds  out  of  nis  violoncello 
before  going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumbler 
one  evening,  and,  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the 
proceedings  of  the  day,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of 
its  deepest  notes,  when  his  lanalady  (who  wtis  fortu- 


DOMBEY  AlfB  SON.  399 

nately  deaf,  and  had  no  other  conscionsn^s  of  these 
performances  than  a  sensation  of  something  nunbUng 
in  her  bones)  announced  a  lady. 

"  In  mourning,"  she  said. 

The  violoncello  stopped  immediately;  and  the  per- 
former, laying  it  on  a  sofa  with  great  tenderness  and 
care,  made  a  sign  that  the  lady  was  to  come  in.  He  fol- 
lowed directly,  and  met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

"  Alonet "  he  said,  "  and  John  here  this  morning!  Is 
there  anything  the  matter,  my  dear?  But  no,"  he 
added,  "  your  face  tells  quite  another  story," 

"lam  afraid  it  is  a  selfish  revelation  that  you  see 
there,  then,"  she  answered. 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  one,"  said  he;  "  and,  if  selfish, 
a  novelty,  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.  But  I  don't  believe 
that." 

He  had  placed  a  chair  for  her  by  this  time,  and  sat 
down  opposite;  the  violoncello  lying  snugly  on  the  sofa 
between  them. 

'*  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  coming  alone,  or 
at  John's  not  having  told  you  I  was  coming,  said  Har- 
riet: "  and  you  will  believe  that,  when  I  tell  you  why  I 
have  come.    May  I  do  so  now?" 

"  You  can.do  nothing  better." 

"  You  were  not  busy  ? " 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
said,  "I  have  been,  aU  day.  Here^- my  witness.  I 
have  been  confiding"  all  my  cares  to  it.  I  wish  I  had 
none  but  my  own  to  tell." 

"  Is  the  House  at  an  end?  "  said  Harriet,  earnestly. 

"  Completely  at  an  end?  " 

"  Will  it  never  be  resumed?" 

"  Never." 

The  bright  expression  of  her  face  was  not  over- 
shadowed as  her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He 
seemed  to  observe  this  with  some  little  involuntary  sui^ 
prise:  and  said  again: 

"  Never."  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It  has 
been,  all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him;  impossible 
to  reason  with  him;  sometimes,  impossible  even  to  ap- 
proach him.  The  worst  has  happened;  and  the  House 
has  fallen,  never  to  be  built  up  any  more." 

"  And  Mr,  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined?" 

"  Ruined."  , 


400  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Will  he  have  no  private  fortune  left?    Nothing?" 

A  certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  that 
was  almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  him 
more  and  more;  to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discord- 
antly against  his  own  emotions.  He  drummed  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  on  the  table,  looking  wistfully  at 
her,  and  shaking  his  head,  said,  after  a  pause: 

"  The  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey's  resources  is  not  accu- 
rately within  my  knowledge;  but  though  they  are 
doubtless  very  large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He 
is  a  gentleman  of  high  honor  and  integrity.  Any  man 
in  his  position  coulu,  and  many  a  man  in  his  position 
would,  have  saved  himself,  by  making  terms  which 
would  have  very  slightly,  almost  insensibly,  increased 
the  losses  of  those  who  had  had  dealings  with  him, 
and  left  him  a  remnant  to  live  upon.  But  he  is  resolved 
on  payment  to  the  last  farthing  of  his  means!  His  own 
words  are,  that  they  will  clear,  or  nearly  clear,  the 
House,  and  that  no  one  can  lose  much.  An,  Miss  Har- 
riet, it  would  do  us  no  harm  to  remember  oftener  than 
we  do,  that  vices  are  sometimes  only  virtues  carried  to 
excess!    His  pride  shows  well  in  this," 

She  heard  nim  with  little  or  no  change  in  her  expres- 
sion, and  with  a  divided  attention  that  sl)owed  her  to 
be  busy  with  something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he 
was  silent,  she  asked  him  hurriedly: 

"  Have  you  seen  him  lately?" 

"No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crisis  of  his  affairs 
renders  it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house, 
he  comes  out  for  the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home  and 
shuts  himself  up,  and  will  see  no  one.  He  has  writt«n 
me  a  letter,  acknowledging  our  past  connexion  in 
higher  terms  than  it  deserved,  and  parting  from  me. 
I  am  delicate  of  obtruding  myself  upon  him  now,  never 
having  had  much  intercourse  with  him  in  better  times; 
but  I  nave  tried  to  do  so.  I  have  written,  gone  there, 
entreated.     Quite  in  vain." 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  w&uld  testify 
some  greater  concern  than  she  had  vet  shown;  and 
spoke  gravely  and  feelingly  as  if  to  impress  her  the 
more;  but  there  was  no  change  in  her. 

"Well,  well.  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  with  a  disap- 
pointed air,  "  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not 
come  here  to  hear  this.     Some  otner  and  pleasanter 


DOMEEY  AND  SON.  401 

theme  is  in  your  mind.  Let  it  be  in  mine,  too,  and 
we  shall  talk  upon  more  equal  terms.     Come!" 

"  No,  it  is  the  same  theme,"  returned  Harriet,  with 
frank  and  quick  surprise.  "Is  it  not  likely  that  it 
should  be?  Is  it  not  natural  that  John  and  I  should 
have  been  thinking  and  speaking  very  much  of  late  of 
these  great  changes?  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  served  so 
many  years^ — you  know  upon  what  terms — reduced,  as 
you  describe:  and  we  quite  rich! " 

Qood,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  here  was,  and  pleas- 
ant as  it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazef-eyed 
bachelor,  since  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upoa 
it,  it  pleased  him  less  at  that  moment,  lighted  with  a 
ray  of  exultation,  than  it  had  ever  pleasea  him  before. 

"  I  need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down 
her  eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  "through  what  means 
our  circumstances  changed.  You  have  not  forgotten 
that  our  brother  James,  upon  that  dreadful  day,  left  no 
will,  no  relations  but  ourselves." 

The  face  was  pleasanter  to  him  now,  though  it  was 
pale  and  melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  cheerily. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "our  history,  the  history  of 
both  my  brothers,  in  connexion  with  the  unfortunate, 
unhappy  gentleman,  of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly. 
You  know  how  few  our  wants  are — John's  and  mine — 
and  what  little  use  we  have  for  money,  after  the  life  we 
have  led  together  for  so  many  years;  and  now  that  he 
is  earning  an  income  that  is  ample  for  us,  through  your 
kindness.  You  are  not  unprepared  to  hear  what  favor 
I  have  come  to  ask  of  you? " 

"I  hardly  know,  I  was  a  minute  ago.  Now  I  think 
I  am  not." 

"Of  my  dead  brother  I  say  nothing.  If  the  dead 
know  what  we  do — but  you  understand  me.  Of  my 
living  brother  I  could  say  much:  but  what  need  I  say 
more,  than  that  this  act  of  duty,  in  which  I  have  come  to 
ask  your  indispensable  assistance,  is  his  own,  and  that 
he  cannot  r&st  until  it  is  performed!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  again;  and  the  light  of  exultation 
in  her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  m  the  observant 
eyes  that  watched  her. 

"  Dear  sir,"  she  went  on  to  say.  "  it  must  be  done  very 
quietly  and  secretly.    Your  experience  and  knowledge 

S6-I1 

D:,-:c.Jt,  Google 


403  DOMBEY  and  son. 

■will  point  out  a  way  of  doing  it.  Mr.  Dombey  may, 
perhaps,  be  led  to  believe  that  it  is  something  saved, 
unexpectedly,  from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes;  or  that  it 
is  a  voluntary  tribute  to  his  honorable  and  upright  char- 
acter, from  some  of  those  with  whom  he  has  had  great 
dealings;  or  that  it  is  some  old  lost  debt  repaid.  TTiere 
must  be  many  ways  of  doing  it.  I  know  you  will  choose 
the  best.  The  favor  I  have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you  will 
ilo  it  for  us  in  your  own  kind,  generous,  considerate 
manner.  That  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  John,  whose 
chief  happiness  in  this  act  of  restitutio.n  is  to  do  it  se- 
cretly, unKDOwn,  and  unapproved  of;  that  only  a  very 
Bmali  part  of  the  inheritance  may  be  reserved  to  us,  un- 
til Mr.  Dombey  shall  have  possessed  the  interest  of  the 
rest  for  the  remainder  of  his  life;  that  you  Tvill  keepour 
secret  faithfully — but  that  I  am  sure  you  will;  and  that, 
from  this  time,  it  may  be  seldom  whispered,  even  be- 
tween you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  my  thoughts  only 
as  a  new  reason  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  and  joy 
and  pride  in  my  brother," 

Such  a  look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  Angels' 
faces,  when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  Heaven, 
among  ninety-nine  just  men.  It  was  not  dimmed  or 
tarnished  by  the  joyful  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but 
was  the  brighter  for  them, 

"My  dear  Harriet,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  silence, 
"  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I  understand  you 
that  you  wish  to  make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance 
available  for  your  good  purpose,  as  well  as  John's?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  "When  we  have  shared 
everythmg  together  for  so  long  a  time,  and  have  had  no 
care,  hope,  or  purpose  apart,  could  I  bear  to  be  excluded 
from  my  share  in  this?  May  I  not  urge  a  claim  to  be 
my  brother's  partner  and  companion  to  the  last?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  dispute  it! "  he  replied. 

"  We  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help?"  she  said!  "I 
knew  we  mightl" 

"  I  should  be  a  worse  man  than, — than  I  hope  I  am, 
or  would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I  could  not  give 
you  that  assurance  from  my  heart  and  soul,  Tou  may, 
implicitly.  Upon  my  honor,  I  will  keep  your  secret 
And  if  it  should  be  found  that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  reduced 
as  I  fear  he  will  be,  acting  on  a  determination  that  there 
seem  to  be  no  means  of  influencing,  I  will  assist  you  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  400 

accomplish  the  design  on  which  you  and  John  are 
jointly  resolved." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a  cor- 
dial, happy  face. 

"  Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his.  "  To  speak  to 
you  of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that  you  can  make 
now— al:ove  ail,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money — would 
be  idle  and  presumptuous.  To  put  before  you  any  ap- 
peal to  reconsider  your  purpose  or  to  set  narrow  Innits 
to  it,  would  be,  I  feci,  not  less  so.  I  have  no  riglit  to 
mar  the  great  end  of  a  great  history,  by  any  obtrusion 
of  my  own  weak  self.  I  have  every  right  to  bond  m^ 
head  before  what  you  confide  to  me,  satisfied  that  it 
comes  from  a  higher  and  better  source  of  inspiration 
than  my  poor  worldly  knowledge,  I  will  say  only  this, 
I  am  your  faithful  steward;  and  I  would  rather  be  so, 
and  your  chosen  friend,  than  I  would  be  anybody  in  the 
world,  except  yourself," 

She  thanked  him  again,  cordially,  and  wished  him 
good  night. 

"  Are  you  going  home?"  he  said.  "Let  me  go  with 
you." 

"  Not  to-night.  I  am  not  going  home  now;  I  have  a 
visit  to  make  alone.    Will  you  come  to-morrow?" 

"  Well,  well,"  said  ho,  "  I'll  come  to-morrow.  In  the 
meantime,  I'll  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  pro- 
ceed. And  perhaps  you'll  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet, 
and — and — think  of  me  a  little  in  connexion  with  it." 

He  handed  her  down  to  a  coach  she  had  in  waiting  at 
the  door;  and  if  bia  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she 
would  have  heard  him  muttering  as  he  went  back  up- 
'  stairs,  when  the  coach  was  driven  off,  that  we  were 
creatures  of  habit,  and  it  was  a  sorrowful  habit  to  bo 
an  old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the  two 
chairs,  he  took  it  up,  without  putting  away  the  vacant 
chair,  and  sat  droning  on  it,  and  slowly  shaking  his 
head  at  the  vacant  chair,  for  a  long,  long  time.  The 
expression  he  communicated  to  the  instrument  at  first, 
though  monstrously  pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to 
the  expression  he  communicated  to  his  own  face,  and 
bestowed  upon  .the  empty  chair:  which  was  bo  sincere, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
remedy  more  than  once,  and  to  rub  bia  iajc»-w'->Mci.\i!«j 


404  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sleeve.  By  degrees,  however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison 
with  hia  own  frame  of  mind,  glided  melodiously  into 
tlie  Harmonious  Blacksmith,  which  he  played  over  and 
over  again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face  gleanwl 
like  true  metal  on  the  anvil  of  a  veritable  blacksmith. 
In  fine,  the  violoncello  and  the  empty  chair  were  the 
companions  of  his  bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight; 
and  when  he  took  hie  supper,  the  violoncello  set  up  on 
end  in  the  sofa  comer,  big  with  the  latent  harmony 
of  a  whole  foundry  full  of  harmonious  blacksmiths, 
seemed  to  ogle  the  empty  chair  out  of  its  crooked  eyes, 
with  unutterable  intelligence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired 
coach,  taking  a  course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one 
to  him,  went  in  and  out  by  by-ways,  through  that  part 
of  the  suburbs,  until  he  arrived  at  some  open  ground, 
where  there  were  a  few  quiet  little  old  houses  standing 
among  gardens.  At  the  garden-gate  of  one  of  these  he 
stopped,  and  Harriet  alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  bell  was  responded  to  by  a 
dolorous-looking  woman,  of  light  complexion,  with 
raised  eyebrows,  and  head  drooping  on  one  aide,  wlio 
curtseyed  at  sight  of  her,  and  conducted  her  across  the 
garden  to  the  house. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night?  "  said  Harriet 

"In  a  poor  way,  miss,  I'm  afraid.  Oh  how  she  do 
remind  me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle's  Betsey  Jane!" 
returned  the  woman  of  the  light  complexion,  in  a  sort 
of  doleful  rapture. 

**  In  what  respect?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  Miss,  in  all  respects,"  replied  the  other,  "  except 
that  she's  grown  up,  and  Betsey  Jane,  when  at  death's 
door,  was  but  a  child." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,"  observed  Har- 
riet, mildly;  "  so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope,  Mrs. 
Wickam." 

"  Ah,  miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  has 
the  spirits  to  bear  it!  "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her 
head.  "  My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I  don't 
owe  it  any  grudge.    I  envys  them  that  is  so  blest ! " 

"  You  should  try  to  be  more  cheerful,"  remarked 
Harriet. 

"Thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam, 
grimly.     "  If  I  was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  405 

situation — you'll  excuse  my  speaking  so  free — would 

fut  it  out  of  my  power,  in  four-and-twenty  hours ;  but 
an't  at  all,  I'd  rather  not.  The  little  spirits  that  I 
ever  had,  I  was  bereaved  of  at  Brighton  some  few 
years  ago,  and  I  think:  I  feol  myself  the  better  for  it." 

In  truth,  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had 
superseded  Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul, 
and  who  considered  herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in 
question  under  the  roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  The 
excellent  and  thoughtful  old  svstem.  hallowed  by  long 
prescription,  which  has  usually  picked  out  from  the 
rest  of  mankind  the  most  dreary  and  uncomfortable 
people  that  could  possibly  be  laid  hold  of,  to  act  as 
mstructors  of  youth,  finger-posts  to  tlie  virtues,  matrons< 
monitors,  attendants  on  sick  beds,  and  the  like,  had 
established  Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business  as  a 
nurse,  and  had  led  to  her  serious  qualities  being  partic- 
ularly commended  by  an  admiring  and  numerous  con- 
nexion, 

Mrs,  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her 
head  on  one  side,  lighted  the  way  up-stairs  to  a  clean, 
neat  chamber,  opening  on  another  chamber  dimly 
lighted,  where  there  was  a  bed.  In  the  first  room  an 
Old  woman  sat,  mechanically  staring  out  at  the  open 
window  on  the  darkness.  In  the  second,  stretched  upon 
the  bed,  lay  the  shadow  of  a  figure  that  had  spurned 
the  wind  and  rain,  one  wintrv  night;  hardly  to  be  rec- 
ognised now,  but  by  the  long  black  hair  that  showed  so 
very  black  against  the  colorless  face,  and  all  the  white 
things  about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes,  and  the  weak  frame!  The  eyes 
that  turned  so  eagerly  and  brightW  to  the  door  when 
Harriet  came  in;  the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise 
itself,  and  moved  so  slowly  round  upon  its  pillow! 

"Alice!"  said  the  visitor's  mild  voice,  "am  I  late  to- 
night?" 

"  You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 

Harriet  had  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put  her 
hand  upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 

"You  are  better?" 

Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  like  a 
disconsolate  spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shook 
her  head  to  negative  this  position. 

"It  matters  very  little!    said  Alice,  with,  a  ia.\ia.t?,TO\Vft- 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


400  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a  day's  differeuce — per- 
liaps  not  so  much," 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a  serious  cliaracter,  expressed  her 
approval  with  a  groan;  and  having  made  some  cold 
(labs  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed-clothes,  as  feeling  for  the 
patient's  feet  and  expecting  to  find  them  stony,  went 
clinking  among  the  medicine  bottles  on  the  table,  as 
who  should  say,  "while  we  are  here,  let  us  repeat  tbe 
mixture  as  before," 

"No,"  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  "evil 
courses,  and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  stonn 
within  and  storm  without,  have  worn  my  life  away.  It 
will  not  last  much  longer." 

She  drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  her  facv 
against  it, 

"  I  lie  here,  sometiraee,  thinking  I  should  like  to  live 
until  I  had  Iiad  a  little  time  to  show  you  how  grateful  1 
could  be!  It  is  a  weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Better 
for  you  as  it  is.     Better  for  me! " 

How  different  her  hold  upon  the  hand,  to  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  fireside  on  the  bleak  win- 
ter evening.  Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look 
here!    This  is  the  end. 

Mrs,  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently  among  the 
bottles,  now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  .  Wickam 
looked  hard  at  her  patient  in  the  act  of  drinking, 
screwed  her  mouth  up  tight,  her  eyebrows  also,  and 
shook  her  head,  expressing  that  tortures  shouldn't  make 
her  say  it  was  a  hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam  then 
sprinkled  a  little  cooling-stuff  about  the  room,  with  the 
air  of  a  female  grave-digger,  who  was  strewing  ashes 
on  ashes,  dust  on  dust — for  she  was  a  serious  character 
— and  withdrew  to  partake  of  certain  funeral  bfiked 
meats  down-stairs. 

"How  long  is  it,"  asked  Alice,  "since  I  went  to  you 
and  told  you  what  I  had  done,  and  when  you  were  ad- 
vised it  was  too  late  for  any  one  to  follow?" 

"  It  is  a  year  and  more,"  said  Harriet. 

"A  vear  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent 
upon  her  face.  "  Months  upon  months  since  you 
brought  me  here!" 

Harriet  answered,  "Yes." 

"  Brought  me  here  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kind- 
ness.   Me!"  said  Alice,  shrinking  with  her  face  behind 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  407 

the  hand,  "  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and 
^ords,  and  angel's  deeds!" 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  Boothed  her. 
Bj-and-by  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against 
her  face,  a^ked  to  have  her  mother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once;  but  the  old  wo- 
man was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window 
on  the  darkness,  that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  until 
Harriet  went  to  her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose  up 
and  came. 

"  Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fix- 
ing her  lustrous  eyes  lovingly  upon  her  visitor,  while  ■ 
she  merely  addressed  a  motion  of  her  finger  to  the  old 
woman,  "tell  her  what  you  know," 

"To-night,  mv deary?" 

"  Ay,  mother,  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly, 
*' to-night!" 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  hy 
alarm,  remorse,  or  grief,  came  creeping  along  the  side 
of  the  bed,  opposite  to  that  on  which  Harriet  eat;  and 
kneeling  down,  so  as  to  bring  her  withered  face  upon  a 
level  with  the  coverlet,  and  stretching  out  her  hand,  so 
as  to  touch  her  daughter's  arm,  began: 

"  My  handsome  gal — " 

Heaven  what  a  cry  was  that  with  which  she  stopped 
there,  gazing  at  the  poor  form  lying  on  the  bed! 

"Changed,  long  ago,  mother!  Withered,  long  ago," 
said  Alice,  without  looking  at  her.  "Don't  grieve  for 
that  now." 

— "My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  "my  gal 
who'll  soon  got  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her  good 
looks." 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her 
hand  a  little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

"Who'll  soon  get  better,  I  say,"  repeated  the  old 
woman,  menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shrivelled 
fist,  "  and  who'll  shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks — 
she  will.     I  say  she  will!  she  shall! — "  as  if  she  were  in 

Sassionate  contention  with  some  unseen  opponent  at 
le  bedside,  who  contradicted  her — "my  daughter  has 
been  turned  away  from,  and  cast  out,  but  she  could  boast 
relationship  to  proud  folks  too,  if  she  chose.  Ah!  To 
proud  folks!  There's  relationship  without  vour  clergy 
and  your  wedding  rings — they  may  make  vt,  bvA  tViRrj 


408  DOMBEY  AND  SOIf. 

can't  break  it — and  my  daughter's  well  related.  Show 
me  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  I'll  show  you  my  Alice's  firet 
cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustroim 
eyes  intent  upon  her  face,  and  derived  corroboratioo 
from  them. 

"What!"  cried  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head 
bridling  with  a  ghastly  vanitj';  "though  I  am  old  and 
ugly  now, — much  older  by  life  and  habit  than  years 
though, — I  was  once  as  young  as  any.  Ah!  as  pretty 
too,  as  many!  I  was  a  fresh  country  wench  in  my  time, 
darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm  to  Harriet,  across  the 
bed,  "and  looked  it.  too.  Down  in  my  country,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  father  ana  his  brother  were  the  ^a^est  gen- 
tlemen and  the  best-liked  that  came  a  visiting  m>m 
London — they  have  long  been  dead,  though!  Lord, 
Lord,  this  long  while!  The  brother,  who  was  my  Ally's 
father,  longest  of  the  two." 

She  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  peered  atber  daugh- 
ter's face:  as  if  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth, 
she  had  flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then 
suddenly,  she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut 
her  head  up  in  her  hands  and  arms. 

"They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without 
lookine  up,  "  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an 
age — there  wasn't  much  more  than  a  year  between 
them,  as  I  recollect — and  if  you  could  have  seen  my  gal, 
as  I  have  seen  her  once,  side  by  side  with  the  others 
daughter,  you'd  have  seen,  for  all  the  difference  of 
dre.s8  and  life,  that  they  were  like  each  other.  Oh!  is 
the  likeness  gone,  and  is  it  my  gal — only  my  gaj — that's 
to  change  so:  "  « 

"  We  shall  all  change,  mother,  in  our  turn,"  said 
Alice. 

"Turn!  "  cried  the  old  woman,  "but  why  not  hers  as 
soon  as  my  gal's!  The  mother  must  have  changed — she 
looked  as  old  as  me,  and  full  as  wrinkled  through  her 
paint — hut  she  was  handsome.  What  have  /  done,  I, 
what  have  /  done  worse  than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is 
to  lie  there  fading!  " 

With  another  of  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running 
out  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  come;  but  im- 
mediately, in  her  uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creep- 
ing up  to  Harriet,  said; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  400 

"That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's 
all.  I  found  it  out  when  I  began  to  ask  who  she  was, 
and  all  about  her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one 
summer  time.  Such  relations  was  no  good  to  me,  then. 
They  wouldn't  have  owned  me,  and  had  nothing  to 
give  me.  I  should  have  asked  'em,  may  be,  for  a  little 
money,  afterwards,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  Alice;  she'd 
a'most  have  killed  me,  if  I  had,  I  think.  She  was  as 
proud  as  t'other  in  her  way,"  said  the  old  woman,  touch- 
mg  the  face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and  withdrawing 
her  hand,  "  for  all  she's  so  quiet  now;  but  she'll  shame 
'em  with  her  good  looks  yet,  Ha,  ha!  She'll  shame  'em, 
will  my  handsome  daughter! " 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry; 
worse  than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which 
it  ended;  worse  than  the  doting  air  with  which  she  sat 
down  in  her  old  seat,  and  stared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  "fixed  on 
Harriet,  whose  hand  she  had  never  released.  She  said 
now: 

"  I  have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I  should  like  you  to 
know  this.  It  might  explain,  I  have  thought,  some- 
thing that  used  to  help  to  narden  me.  I  had  heard  so 
much,  in  my  wrongdoing,  of  my  neglected  duty,  that  I 
took  up  with  the  belief  that  duty  had  not  been  done  to 
me,  and  that  as  the  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest  grew. 
I  somehow  made  it  out  that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes 
and  mothers,  they  went  wrong  in  their  way,  too;  but 
that  their  way  was  not  so  foul  a  one  as  mine,  and  they 
had  need  to  bless  God  for  it.  That  is  all  past.  It  is 
like  a  dream,  now,  which  I  cannot  quite  remember  or 
understand.  It  has  been  more  and  more  like  a  dream, 
every  day,  since  you  began  to  sit  here,  and  to  read  to 
me.  I  only  tell  it  you,  as  I  can  recollect  it.  Will  you 
read  to  me  a  little  more?  " 

Harriet  was  withdrawing  her  hand  to  open  the  book, 
when  Alice  detained  it  for  a  moment. 

"You  will  not  forget  my  mother?  I  foi^ive  her,  if  I 
have  any  cause.  I  Know  that  she  forgives  me,  and  is 
sorry  in  her  heart.     You  will  not  forget  her?  " 

"  Never,  Alice!" 

"  A  moment  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you 
read  I  may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face." 

Harriet  complied  and  read— read  the  eternal  book  for 


410  DOMEEY  AND  SON. 

all  the  weary,  and  the  heavy-laden;  for  all  the  wretched, 
fallen,  and  neglected  of  this  earth — read  the  blessed  his- 
tory, in  which  the  blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the 
criminal,  the  woman  tstained  with  shame,  the  shunned 
of  aU  our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a  portion,  that  no  human 
pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry  through  all  the  agea 
that  this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the 
thousandth  atom  of  a  grain  reduce — read  the  ministry 
of  Him,  who,  through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all 
its  hopes  and  griefs,  from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy 
to  age,  had  sweet  compassion  for,  and  interest  in,  its 
every  scene  and  sta^e,  its  every  suffering  and  sorrow, 

"  I  shall  come,"  said  Harriet,  when  she  shut  the  book, 
"very  early  in  the  morning." 

The,  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for 
a  moment,  then  opened;  and  Alice  kissed,  and  blest 
her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door;  and  in  their 
light,  and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when 
it  was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been 
read  to  her;  and  Ufe  passed  from  her  face,  like  light 
removed. 

Nothing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the 
mortal  house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the 
black  hair  that  had  fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Chanoes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  house  in 
the  long  dull  street,  once  the  scene  of  Florence's  child- 
hood and  loneliness.  It  is  a  great  house  still,  proof 
against  wind  and  weather,  without  breaches  in  the  roof, 
or  shattered  windows,  or  dilapidated  walls;  but  it  is  a 
ruin  none  the  less,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are.  at  first,  incredulous 
in  respect  of  the  shapeless  rumors  that  they  hear. 
Cook  says  our  people's  credit  ain't  so  easy  shook  as  that 


t,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  411 

comes  to,  thank  God;  and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects  to 
hear  it  reported  next,  that  the  Bank  of  England's  agoing 
to  break,  or  the  jewels  in  the  Tower  to  be  sold  up.  But, 
next  come  the  Gazette,  and  Mr.  Perch:  and  Mr,  Perch 
brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over  in  the  kitchen,  and  to 
spend  a  pleasant  evening. 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinson'B 
main  anxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a  good  round 
one — not  less  than  a.  hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr. 
Perch  don't  think  himself  that  a  hundred  thousand 
pound  will  nearly  cover  it.  The  women,  led  by  Mrs. 
Perch  and  cook,  often  repeat  "  a  hun-dred  thou-sand 
pound!"  with  awful  satisfaction— as  if  handling  the 
words  were  like  handling  the  money;  and  the  house- 
maid, who  has  her  eye  on  Mr.  Towlinson,  wishes  she 
had  only  a  hundredth  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow  on  the 
man  of  her  choice.  Mr,  Towlinson,  still  mindful  of  his 
old  wrong,  opines  that  a  foreigner  would  hardly  know 
what  to  do  with  so  much  money,  unless  he  spent  it  on 
his  whiskers;  which  hitter  sarcasm  causes  the  house- 
maid to  withdraw  in  tears. 

But  not  to  remain  long  absent;  for  cook,  who  has  the 
reputation  of  being  extremely  good-hearted,  says  what- 
ever they  do,  let  'em  stand  by  one  another  now,  Towlin- 
son, for  there's  no  telling  how  soon  they  may  be  divided. 
They  have  been  in  that  house  (says  cook)  through  a 
funeral,  a  wedding,  and  a  running-away;  and  let  it  not 
he  said  that  they  couldn't  agree  among  themselves  at 
such  a  time  as  the  present.  Mrs.  Perch  is  immensely 
afEected  by  this  moving  address,  and  openly  remarks 
that  cook  is  an  angel.  Mr.  Towlinson  replies  to  cook, 
far  be  it  from  liim  to  stand  in  the  way  of  that  good  feel- 
ing which  he  could  wish  to  see;  and  adjourning  in  quest 
of  the  housemaid,  and  presently  returning  with  that 
young  lad^  on  his  arm,  informs  the  kitchen  that 
foreigners  is  only  his  fun,  and  that  him  and  Anne  have 
now  resolved  to  take  one  another  for  better  for  worse, 
and  to  settle  in  Oxford  Market  in  the  general  green 
grocery  and  herb  and  leech  line,  where  your  kind  favors 
IB  particular  requested.  This  announcement  is  received 
with  acclamation;  and  Mrs.  Perch,  projecting  her  soul 
into  futurity,  says,  "girls,"  in  cook^s  ear,  in  a  solemn 
whisper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


412  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lower  regions,  couldn't  be.  Therefore  cook  tosses  up  a 
hot  dish  or  two  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  com- 
pounds a  lobster  salad  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hos- 
pitable purpose.  Even  Mrs.  Pipchin,  agitated  by  the 
occasion,  rings  her  bell,  and  sends  down  word  that  she 
requests  to  have  that  little  bit  of  sweet-bread  that  was 
left,  wanned  tip  for  her  supper,  and  sent  to  her  on  a 
traj  with  about  a  quarter  of  a  tumbler-full  of  mulled 
sherry;  for  she  feels  poorly. 

There  is  a  little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  but  very 
little.  It  is  chiefly  speculation  as  to  how  long  he  has 
known  that  this  was  going  to  happen.  Cook  says 
shrewdly,  "  Oh  a  long  time,  bless  you!  Take  your  oath 
of  that.  And  reference  being  made  to  Mr.  Perch  he 
confirms  her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  wonders  what 
he'll  do,  and  whether  be  '11  go  out  in  any  situation.  Ur. 
Towlinson  thinks  not,  and  nints  at  a  refuge  in  one  of 
them  gen-teel  almshouses  of  the  better  kind.  "Ahl 
where  he  '11  have  his  little  garden  you  know,"  says  cook 
plaintively,  "and  bring  up  sweet-peas  in  the  spring.'' 
"  Exactly  so,"  says  Mr.  Towlinson,  "  and  be  one  of  tne 
Brethren  of  something  or  another."  "  We  are  all 
brethren,"  says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a  pause  of  her  drink. 
"  Except  the  sisters,"  says  Mr.  Perch,  "  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen!"  remarks  cook.  "Pride  shallhave  a 
fall,  and  it  always  was  and  will  be  so!"  observes  the 
housemaid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel,  in  making  these 
reSections;  and  what  a  Christian  unanimity  they  are 
sensible  of,  in  bearing  the  common  shock  with  resigna- 
tion. There  is  only  one  interruption  to  this  excellent 
stiite  of  mind,  whicn  is  occasioned  by  a  young  kitchen- 
maid  of  inferior  rank — in  black  stockings — who.  having 
sat  with  her  mouth  open  for  a  long  time,  unexpectedly 
discharges  from  it  words  to  this  effect,  "  Suppose  the 
wages  shouldn't  he  paid!"  The  company  sit  for  a  mo- 
ment speechless;  but  cook  recovering  first,  turns  upon 


the  young  woman,  and  requests  to  know  how  she  dares 
insult  the  faniil^,  whose  bread  she  eats,  by  such  a  dis- 
honest supposition,  and  whether  she  thinks  that  any- 


body, with  a  scrap  of  honor  left,  could  deprive  poor 
servants  of  their  pittance?  "  Because  if  that  is  your  re- 
ligious feelings,  Mary  Daws,"  says  cook,  warmly,  "I 
don't  know  where  you  mean  to  go  to." 

C.oogk 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  413 

Mr.  Towlinson  don't  know  either;  nor  anybody;  and 
the  young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  ex- 
actly, herself,  and  scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  cov- 
ered with  confusion,  as  with  a  garment. 

After  a  few  days,  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the 
house,  and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in 
the  dining-room,  as  ii  they  lived  there.  Especially, 
there  ia  a  gentleman,  of  a  Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  coun- 
tenance, with  a  very  massive  watch-guard.  Who  whis- 
tles in  the  drawing-room,  and,  while  he  is  waiting  for 
the  other  gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink  in 
his  pocket,  asks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the  easy  name  of 
"  Old  Cock,")  if  he  happens  to  know  what  the  figure  of 
them  crimson  and  gold  hangings  might  have  been,  when 
new  bought.  The  callers  and  appointments  in  the 
dining-room  become  more  numerous  every  day,  and 
every  gentleman  seems  to  have  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket, 
and  to  have  some  occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said 
that  there  is  going  to  be  a  Sale;  and  then  more  people 
arrive,  with  pen  and  ink  in  their  pockets,  commandmg 
a  detachment  of  men  with  carpet  caps,  who  immediately 
begin  to  pull  up  the  carpets,  and  knock  the  furniture 
about,  and  to  print  off  thousands  of  impressions  of  their 
shoes  upon  the  hall  and  staircase. 

The  council  down-stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this 
time,  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats 
of  eating.  At  length  they  are  one  day  summoned  in  a 
body  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  room,  and  thus  addressed  by  the 
fair  Peruvian: 

"Your  master's  in  difficulties,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
tartly.     "  You  know  that,  I  suppose?  " 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a  general  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact. 

"And  you  're  all  on  the  lookout  for  yourselves,  I 
warrant  you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  her  head  at 
them. 

A  shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  "  No  more  than 
yourself! " 

"That's  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it?"  says 
the  ireful  Pipchin,  looking  with  a  fiery  eye  over  the  in- 
termediate heads. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,"  replies  cook,  advancing. 
"  And  what  then,  pray?" 

"  Why,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,"  says 


414  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mrs.  Pipchin.  "The  sooner  the  better,  and  I  hope  1 
shall  never  see  your  face  again." 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a  caoras 
bag:  and  tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a  month 
bej-ond  it,  and  clutches  the  money  tight,  until  a  re- 
ceipt for  the  same  is  duly  signed,  to  the  last  up-stroke: 
when  she  grudgingly  lets  it  go.  This  form  of  proceed- 
ing Mr^  Pipchin  repeats  with  every  member  of  the 
household,  until  all  are  paid. 

"  Now  those  that  choose,  can  go  about  their  business," 
says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here 
on  hoard  wages  for  a  week  or  so,  and  make  themselves 
useful.  Except,"  says  the  inflammable  Pipchin,  "that 
slut  of  a  cook,  who  '11  go  immediately." 

"  That,"  says  cook,  "  she  certainly  will!  I  wish  you 
good  day,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  sincerely  wish  I  coiild  com- 
pliment you  on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance! " 

"Gtet  along  with  you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stamping 
her  foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly 
exasperating  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joinea 
below  stairs  by  the  rest  of  the  confederation, 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says,  that,  in  the  first  place,  he 
would  beg  to  propose  a  little  snack  of  something  to  eat; 
and  over  that  snack  would  desire  to  offer  a  suggestioD 
which  he  thinks  will  meet  the  position  in  vphicn  they 
find  themselves.  The  refreshment  being  produced,  an3 
ver^  heartily  partaken  of,  Mr.  Towlinson 's  suggestion 
is,  m  effect,  that  cook  is  goine,  and  that  if  we  are  not 
true  to  ourselves,  nobody  will  he  true  to  us.  That  they 
have  lived  in  that  house  a  long  time,  and  exerted  them- 
selves very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  {At  this, 
cook  says,  with  emotion,  "  Hear,  hear! "  and  Mrs.  Perch, 
who  is  there  again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.) 
And  that  he  thinks,  at  the  present  time,  the  feeline 
ought  to  be  "  Go  one,  go  all!"  The  housemaid  is  mucn 
affected  l>y  this  generous  sentiment,  and  warmly  sec- 
onds it.  Cook  says  she  feels  it 's  right,  and  only  hopes 
it 's  not  (Ume  as  a  compliment  to  her,  but  from  a  sense 
of  duty.  Mr.  Towlinson  replies,  from  a  sense  of  duty; 
and  that  now  he  is  driven  to  express  his  opinions,  he 
win  openly  say,  that  he  does  not  think  it  over-respecta- 
ble to  remain  hi  a  hou.se  wh<^rc  Sales  and  such-like  are 
carrying  forwards.     The  housemaid  is  sure  of  it;    and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  415 

relates,  in  confirmation,  that  a  strange  man,  in  a  carpet 
cap,  offered,  this  very  morning,  to  kiss  her  on  thestairs. 
Hereupon,  Mr,  Towhnson  is  starting  from  his  chair,  to 
seek  and  "  smash  "  the  offender;  when  he  is  laid  hold 
on  by  the  ladies,  who  beseech  hina  to  calm  himself,  and 
to  reffect  that  it  is  easier  and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene 
of  such  indecencies  at  once.  Mrs.  Perch,  presenting  the 
case  in  a  new  light,  even  shows  that  delicacy  towards 
Mr,  Dombey,  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  imperatively 
demands  precipitate  retreat.  "For  what,"  says  the 
good  woman,  "must  his  feeling  be,  if  he  was  to  come 
upon  any  of  the  poor  servants  that  he  once  deceived 
into  thinking  him  immensely  rich!"  Cook  is  so  struck 
by  this  moral  consideration,  that  Mrs,  Perch  improves 
it  with  several  pious  axioms,  original  and  selected.  It 
becomes  a  clear  case  that  they  must  all  go.  Boxes  are 
packed,  cabs  fetched,  and  at  dusk  that  evening  there  is 
not  one  member  of  the  party  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the 
long  dull  street;  but  it  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rate  fly  from 
it. 

The  men  in  the  carpet  caps  go  on  tumbling  the  furni- 
ture about;  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink 
make  out  inventories  of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furni- 
ture never  made  to  be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and 
cheese  from  the  public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture 
never  made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to  have  a  delight 
in  appropriating  precious  articles  to  strange  uses.  Cha- 
otic combinations  of  furniture  also  take  place.  Mattresses 
and  bedding  appear  in  the  dining-room;  the  glass  and 
china  get  into  the  conservatory ;  the  great  dinner  service 
is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the  large 
drawing-room;  and  the  stair-wirea,  made  into  fasces, 
decorate  the  marble  chimney-pieces.  Finally,  a  rug, 
with  a  printed  bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from  the  bal- 
cony; and  a  similar  appendage  graces  either  side  of  the 
hall  door. 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a  retinue  of  mouldy  gigs 
and  chaise-carts  in  the  street;  and  herds  of  shabby  vam- 
pires, Jew  and  Christian,  overrun  the  house,  sounding 
the  plate-glass  mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  dis- 
cordant octaves  on  the  grand  piano,  drawing  wet  fore- 
fingers over  the  pictures,  breatning  on  the  bukdes  of  the 
best  diuner-knives,  punching  the  squabs  of  chairs  and 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


416  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touzling  the  feather-beds, 
opening  and  Bhutting  all  the  drawers,  balancing  the 
sflver  spoons  and  forks,  looking  into  the  very  threadB 
of  the  drapery  and  linen,  and  disparaging  everything. 
There  is  not  a  secret  place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy 
and  snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen  range  as 
curiously  as  into  the  attic  clothes-press.  Stout  men  with 
napless  hats  on,  look  out  of  the  bedroom  windows,  and 
cut  jokes  with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating 
spirits  withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  cata- 
logues, and  make  marginal  notes  thereon,  with  stumps 
of  pencils.  Two  brokers  invade  the  very  fire-escape, 
and  take  a  panoramic  survey  of  the  neighborhood  from 
the  top  of  the  house.  The  swarm  and  buzz,  and  going 
up  and  down,  endure  for  days.  The  Capital  Modern 
Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a  palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best 
drawing-room;  and  on  the  capital,  french-polished,  ex- 
tending, telescopic  range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining- 
tables  with  turned  legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is 
erected;  and  the  herds  of  shaobv  vampires,  Jew  and 
Christian,  the  strangers  fluffy  and  snuffy,  and  the  stout 
men  with  the  napless  hats,  congregate  ahout  it  and  sit 
upon  everything  within  reach,  mantel-pieces  included, 
and  begin  to  bid.  Hot,  bumming,  and  dusty,  are  the 
rooms  all  day;  and — high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and 
dust — the  head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of  the 
Auctioneer,  are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  carpet 
caps  get  fiustered  and  vicious,  with  tumbling  the  Lote 
about,  and  still  the  Lota  are  going,  going,  gone;  still 
coming  on.  Sometimes  there  is  joking  and  a  general 
roar.  This  lasts  all  day  and  three  days  following.  The 
Capital  Modem  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  re-appear;  and 
with  them  come  sprmg-vans  and  wagons,  and  an  army 
of  porters  with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with  car- 
pet caps  are  screwing  at  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches, 
or  staggering  by  the  dozen  together  on  the  staircase 
under  neavy  burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect  rocks  of 
Spanish  mahogajiy,  best  rosewood,  or  plate-glass,  into 
the  gigs  and  chaise-carts,  vans  and  wagons.  All  sorts 
of  vehicles  of  burden  are  in  attendance,  from  a  tilted 
wagon  to  a  wheel-barrow.  Poor  Paul's  little  bedstead 
is  carried  off  in  a  donkey -tandem.    For  nearly  a  whole 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  417 

week  the  Capital  Modern  Household,  &c.,  is  in  course 
of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  house 
but  scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of 
straw  and  hajj',  and  a  battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the 
hall-door.  Tne  men  with  tne  carpet  caps  gather  up 
their  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches  into  Bags,  shoulder 
them,  and  walk  off.  One  of  the  pen  and  ink  gentlemen 
goes  over  the  house  as  a  last  attention;  sticking  up  bills 
in  the  windows  respecting  the  lease  of  this  desirable 
family  mansion,  and  shutting  the  shutters.  At  length 
he  foflows  the  men  with  the  carpet  caps.  None  of  the 
invaders  remain.  The  house  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly 
from  it. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor  where  the  window-blinds  are 
drawn  down  close,  have  been  spared  the  general  devas- 
tation. Mrs.  Pipchin  has  reipaiued  austere  and  stony 
during  the  proceedings,  in  her  own  room;  or  has  oc- 
casionally looked  in  at  tie  sale  to  see  what  the  goods 
are  fetching,  and  to  bid  for  one  particular  easy -chair. 
Mrs.  Pipchin  has  been  the  highest  bidder  for  the  easy- 
chair,  and  sits  upon  her  property  when  Mrs.  Chick 
comes  to  see  her. 

"  How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin?  "  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  the  deuce,  "  says  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  ' '  He  never  does  me  the  honor  to  speak  to  me. 
He  has  his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  his 
own;  and  what  he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when 
there's  nobody  there.  It's  no  use  asking  me.  I  know 
no  more  about  him  than  the  man  in  the  south  who  burnt 
his  mouth  by  eating  cold  plum  porridge." 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a  flounce. 

"But  good  gracious  me!"  cries  Mrs.  Chick  blandly, 
"  How  long  is  this  to  lastl  If  my  brother  will  not  make 
an  effort,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  him?  I 
am  sure  I  should  have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of 
the  consequences  of  not  making  an  effort,  by  this  time, 
to  be  warned  against  that  fatal  error." 

"  Hoity  toityi"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
"There's  a  great  fuss,  I  think,  about  it.  It  ain't  so 
wonderful  a  case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before 
now,  and  been  obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.  I'm 
sure  /have!" 


418  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

,  "My  brother,"  pursues  Mrs.  Chick  profoundly,  "isflo 
peculiar — so  strange  a  man.  He  is  the  most  pecuUar 
man  /  ever  saw.  \Vould  any  one  believe  that  when  he 
received  news  of  the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that 
unnatural  child — it's  a  comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remember 
that  I  always  said  there  was  something  extraordinary 
about  that  child:  but  nobody  minds  me — would  anybody 
believe,  I  say,  that  he  should  then  turn  round  upon  me 
and  say  he  had  supposed,  from  my  manner,  that  she 
had  come  to  mv  house?  Why,  my  gracious!  And 
would  anybody  believe  that  when  I  merely  say  to  him, 
'Paul,  I  may  be  very  foolish,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I 
am,  but  I  cannot  understand  how  your  affairs  can  have 
got  into  this  state,'  he  should  actually  fly  at  me,  and  re- 
quest that  I  will  come  to  see  him  no  more  until  he  asks 
me!     Why,  my  goodness! " 

"Ah!"  says  Mrs,  Pipchin.  "It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  a 
little  more  to  do  with  mines.  They'd  have  tried  his 
temper  for  him." 

"And  what,"  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of 
Mrs,  Pipchin's  observations,  "is  it  to  end  in?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  What  does  my  brother  mean  to 
do?  He  must  do  something  It's  of  no  use  remaining 
shut  up  in  his  own  rooms.  Business  won't  come  to  him. 
No.  He  must  go  to  it.  Then  why  don't  he  gol  He 
knows  where  to  go,  I  suppose,  having  been  a  man  of 
business  all  his  life.  Very  good.  Then  why  not  go 
there? " 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  rea- 
soning, remains  silent  tor  a  minute  to  admire  it. 

"Besides,"  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumenta- 
tive air,  "who  ever  heard  of  such  obstinacy  as  hie 
staying  shut  up  here  through  all  these  dreadful  dis- 
agreeahles?  It  s  not  as  if  there  was  no  place  for  him 
to  go  to.  Of  course,  he  could  have  come  to  our  house. 
He  knows  he  is  at  home  there,  I  suppose?  Mr.  Chick 
has  perfectly  bored  about  it,  and  I  said  with  my  own 
lips,  'Why,  surely,  Paul,  you  don't  imagine  that  be- 
cause your  affairs  have  got  into  this  state,  you  are  the 
less  at  home  to  such  near  relatives  as  ourselves?  You 
don't  imagine  that  we  are  like  the  rest  of  the  world?' 
But  no;  here  he  stays  all  through,  and  here  he  is.  Why, 
g-ood  gracious  m6,Buppoaettve^o\wft>«ajBtobe  letl  what 
wouitf  he  do  then?    H.e  co\i\5L'a'\,  xema-m  V'etft,S!aa-si.,   M 


DOMBBY  AND  SON.  419 

he  attempted  to  do  bo,  there  would  be  an  ejectment,  an 
action  for  Doe,  and  all  sorts  of  things:  and  then  he  must 
go.  Then  why  not  go  at  first  instead  of  at  last?  And 
that  brings  me  back  to  what  I  said  just  now,  and  I  nat- 
urally ask  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it?" 

"  I  know  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,"  replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  that's  enough 
for  me.    I'm  going  to  take  myself  off  in  a  jiffy." 

"  In  a  which,  Mrs.  Pipchin?"  says  Mrs.  Chick, 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin  sharply. 

"Ah,  well!  really  I  can't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin," 
says  Mrs,  Chick  with  frankness, 

"It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me  if  you 
could,"  replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.     "At  any  rate  I'm 

foing.  I  can't  stop  here.  I  should  be  dead  in  a  week, 
had  to  cook  my  own  j)ork  chop  yesterday,  and  I'm  not 
used  to  it.  My  constitution  will  be  giving  way  next. 
Besides  I  had  a  very  fair  connexion  at  Brighton  when  I 
came  here — little  Pankey's  folks  alone  were  worth  a 
good  eighty  pounds  a-year  to  me — and  I  can't  afford  to 
throw  it  awav,  I've  written  to  my  niece,  and  she  ex- 
pects me  by  this  time." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother?"  inquires  Mrs. 
Chick, 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  very  easy  to  say  speak  to  him,"  retorts 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  "How  is  it  done!  I  called  out  to  him 
yesterday,  that  I  was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  bet- 
ter let  me  send  for  Mrs.  Richards.  He  grunted  some- 
thing or  other  that  meant  yes,  and  I  sent.  Grunt 
indeed!  If  he  had  been  Mr,  Pipchin,  he'd  have  had 
some  reason  to  grunt.     Yah!     I've  no  patience  with  it!" 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  has  pumped  up  so 
much  fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peru- 
vian mines,  rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see 
Mrs.  Chick  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  tlie 
last  the  peculiar  character  of  her  brother,  noiselessly 
retires,  much  occupied  with  her  own  sagacity  and  clear- 
ness of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty, 
arrives  with  Polly  and  a  box,  and  leaves  them,  with  a 
sounding  kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired 
character  of  which  affects  Mr.  Toodle's  spirits  strongly. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Polly  my  deat,"  aava  ^^."^*iS^«ii 
"Being  now,  an  ingein-driver   awA  ^eu  \.o  tV*  S.-a.  "Cas. 


420  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

world,  I  shouldn't  allow  of  your  coming  liere,  to  be 
made  dull-like,  if  it  warn't  for  favors  past.  But  favore 
past,  Polly,  is  never  to  be  forgot.  To  them  which  is  in 
adversity,  besides,  your  face  is  a  cord'l.  So  lefa  have 
another  kiss  on  it  my  dear.  You  wish  no  better  than  to 
do  a  right  act,  I  know;  and  my  views  is,  that  it's  right 
and  dutiful  to  do  this.    Good  night,  Polly! " 

Mrs.  Fipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black 
bombazeen  skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl;  and  has  her 
personal  property  packed  up;  and  has  her  chair  (late  a 
favorite  chair  of  Mr,  Dombey's,  and  the  dead  bargain 
of  the  sale)  ready  near  the  street  doorj  and  is  only  wait- 
ing for  a  fly  van,  going  to-night  to  Bnghton  on  private 
service,  which  is  to  c^  for  her,  by  private  contract,  and 
convey  her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wardrobe  being 
handed  in  and  stowed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin's  chair  is 
next  handed  in,  and  placed  in  a  convenient  comer 
among  certain  trusses  of  hay;  it  being  the  intention  of 
the  aimable  woman  to  occupy  the  chair  during  her 
journey.  Mrs.  Pipchin  herself  is  next  handed  in,  and 
grimly  takes  her  seat.  There  is  a  snaky  gleana  in  her 
hard  grey  eye,  as  of  anticipated  rounds  of  buttered 
toast,  relavs  of  hot  chops,  worryings  and  quellings  of 
young  children,  sharp  snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and  all 
the  omer  delights  of  ner  Ogress's  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchin 
almost  laughs  as  the  fly  van  drives  off,  and  she  com- 
poses her  black  bombazeen  skirts,  and  settles  hersdf 
among  the  cushions  of  her  easy  chair. 

The  house  is  such  a  ruin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and 
there  is  not  one  left. 

But  Polly,  though  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion — for 
there  is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in 
which  its  late  master  hides  nis  head — is  not  alone  long. 
It  is  night;  and  she  is  sitting  at  work  in  the  house- 
keeper's room,  trying  to  forget  what  a  lonely  house  it 
is,  and  what  a  history  belongs  to  it;  when  there  is  a 
knock  at  the  hall  door,  as  loud  sounding  as  any  knock 
can  be,  striking  into  such  an  empty  place.  Opening  it, 
she  returns  across  the  echoing  hall,  accompanied  by  a 
female  figure  in  a  close  black  bonnet.  It  is  Miss  Tox. 
and  Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red. 

"Oh,  Polly,"  says  Miss  Tox,  "when  I  looked  into 
have  a  little  lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I  got  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  421 

message  that  you  left  for  me;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  re- 
cover my  spirits  at  all  I  came  on  after  you.  Is  there  no 
one  here  but  you?" 

"  Ah!  not  a  soul,"  says  Polly. 

"  Have  you  seen  him?  "  whispers  Miss  Tox. 

"Bless  you,"  returns  Polly,  "no;  he  has  not  been 
seen  this  many  a  day.  They  tell  me  he  never  leaves  his 
room," 

"  Is  he  said  to  he  ill? "  inquires  Miss  Tox. 

"  No  ma'am,  not  that  I  know  of,"  returns  Polly,  ex- 
cept in  his  mind.  He  must  be  very  bad  there,  poof  gen- 
tleman ! " 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can  scarcely 
speak.  She  JB  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough 
with  age  and  celibacy.  Her  heart  is  very  tender,  her 
compassion  very  genuine,  her  homage  very  real.  Be- 
neatn  the  locket  with  the  fishy-eye  in  it.  Miss  Tox 
bears  better  qualities  than  many  a  less  whimsical  out- 
side; such  qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many  courses  of 
the  sun,  the  best  outsides  and  brightest  husks  that  fall 
in  the  harvest  of  the  Great  Reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before 
Polly,  with  a  candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks 
after  her,  for  company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  un- 
willing to  go  back  into  the  dreary  house,  and  jar  its 
emptiness  with  the  heavy  fastenings  of  the  door,  and 
glide  away  to  bed.  But  all  this  Polly  does;  and  in  the 
morning  sets  in  one  of  those  darkened  rooms  such  mat- 
ters as  she  has  been  advised  to  prepare,  and  then  re- 
tires and  enters  them  no  more  until  next  morning  at  the 
same  hour.  There  are  bells  there,  but  they  never  ring; 
and  though  she  can  sometimes  hear  a  foot-fall  going  to 
and  fro,  it  never  comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  then  begins  to 
be  Miss  Tox's  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties— or 
what  are  such  to  her — to  be  carried  into  these  rooms 
next  morning.  She  derives  so  much  satisfaction  from 
the  pursuit,  that  she  enters  on  it  regularly  from  that 
time;  and  bringfi  daily  in  her  little  basket,  various 
choice  condiments  selected  from  the  scanty  stores  of  the 
deceased  owner  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail.  She 
likewise  brings,  in  sheets  of  curl  paper,  morsels  of  cold 
meats,  tongues  of  sheep,  halves  of  fowls,  for  her  own 
dinner;  and  sharing  these  collations  with  Polly,  ^aese* 


422  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  ruined  house  that  the 
rate  nave  fled  from:  hiding,  in  a  fright  at  every  sound, 
stealing  in  and  out  like  a  criminal;  only  desiring  to  be 
true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her  adoration,  unknown  to 
him,  unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one  poor  simple  wo- 
man. 

The  major  knows  it;  but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  major,  in  a 
fit  of  curiosity,  has  charged  the  native  to  watch  the 
house  sometimes,  and  find  out  what  becomes  of  Doiii- 
bey.  The  native  has  reported  Miss  Tox's  fidelity,  and 
the  major  has  nearly  choked  himself  dead  with  laugh- 
ter. He  is  permanently  bluer  from  that  hour,  and  con- 
stantly wheezes  to  himself,  his  lobster  eyes  starting  out 
of  his  head,  "Damme,  sir,  the  woman's  a  born  idiot!" 

And  the  ruined  man.  How  does  he  pass  the  hours, 
alone? 

"Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come!" 
He  did  remember  it.  It  was  heavy  on  his  mind  now; 
heavier  than  all  the  rest. 

''Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come!" 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night  he 
thought  of  it;  in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched  dawn, 
the  ghostly,  memory-haunted  twilight.  He  did  remem- 
ber it.  In  agony,  m  sorrow,  in  remorse,  in  despairl" 
"Papa!  papal  Speak  to  me,  dear  papal"  He  heard 
the  words  again,  and  saw  the  face.  He  saw  it  fail  upon 
the  trembling  hands,  and  beard  the  one  prolonged  low 
cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For 
the  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow's 
sun;  for  the  stain  of  his  domestic  shame  there  was  no 
purification;  nothing,  thank  Heaven,  could  bring  his 
dead  child  back  to  life.  But  that  which  he  mighttiave 
made  so  different  in  all  the  past^which  miglit  have 
made  the  past  itself  so  different,  though  this  he  hardly 
thought  of  now — that  which  was  his  own  work,  that 
whit'h  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a  blessing. 
an<l  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a 
curse:  that  w^  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 


DOMBBY  AND  SON.  42:J 

Oh!  He  did  remember  it!  The  rain  that  fell  upon 
the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that 
night,  had  had  foreknowledge  in  their  melanchoiy 
Bound.  He  knew,  now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew, 
now,  that  he  had  called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which 
bowed  it  lower  than  the  heaviest  stroke  of  fortune.  He 
knew,  now,  what  it  was  to  be  rejected  and  deserted; 
now,  when  every  loving  blossom  he  had  withered  in  his 
innocent  daughter's  heart  was  snowing  down  in  ashes 
OD  him. 

He  thought  of  her,  a.8  she  had  been  that  night  when 
he  and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she 
had  been,  in  all  the  home-events  of  the  abandoned 
house.  He  thought,  now,  that  of  all  around  him,  she 
alone  had  never  changed.  His  boy  had  faded  into  dust, 
his  proud  wife  had  sunk  into  a  polluted  creature,  his 
flatterer  and  friend  had  been  transformed  into  the  worst 
of  villains,  his  riches  had  melted  away,  the  very  walls 
that  sheltered  him  looked  on  him  as  a  stranger;  she 
alone  had  turned  the  same  mild  gentle  look  upon  him 
always.  Yes,  to  the  latest  and  the  last.  She  had  never 
changed  to  him — nor  had  he  ever  changed  to  her — and 
she  was  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  fell  away  before  hie  mind — his 
baby-hope,  his  wife,  his  friend,  his  fortune — oh  how  the 
mist,  through  which  he  had  seen  her,  cleared,  and 
showed  him  her  true  self!  Oh,  how  much  better  than 
this  that  he  bad  loved  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  lost 
her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  laid  them  in  their  early 
grave  together! 

In  his  pride^for  lie  was  proud  yet— he  let  the  world 
go  from  him  freely.  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it  off. 
Whether  he  imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for 
him,  or  indifference  to  him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  was 
in  the  same  degree  to  be  avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He 
had  no  idea  of  any  one  companion  in  his  misery,  but 
the  one  he  had  driven  away.  What  he  would  have 
said  to  her,  or  what  consolation  submitted  to  receive 
from  her,  he  never  pictured  to  himself.  But  he  always 
knew  she  would  have  been  true  to  him,  if  he  had  suf- 
fered her.  He  always  knew  she  would  have  loved  him 
better  now,  than  atahyothertime:  he  was  as  certain  that 
was  in  her  nature,  as  he  was  that  there  was  a  sky  above 
him;  and  he  sat  thinking  so,  in  hie  loneliness,  from  hour 


484  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  hour.  Day  after  day  uttered  this  speech;  night  after 
night  showea  him  thi^  knowledge. 

It  began,  beyond  all  doubt  (nowever  slowly  it  ad- 
vanced for  Bome  time),  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  hus- 
band's letter,  and  the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  And 
vet— so  proud  he  was  in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of 
ner  only  ae  something  that  might  have  been  his,  but 
was  lost  beyond  redemption— that  if  he  could  have 
heard  her  voice  in  an  adjoining  room,  he  would  dot 
have  gone  to  her.  If  he  could  have  seen  her  in  the 
street,  and  she  had  done  no  more  than  look  at  him  as 
she  had  been  used  to  look,  be  would  have  passed  on 
witli  his  old  cold  unforgiving  face,  and  not  addressed 
her,  or  relaxed  it,  though  his  heart  should  have  broken 
soon  afterwards.  However  turbulent  his  thoughts,  or 
harsh  his  anger  had  been,  at  first,  concerning  her  mar- 
riage, or  her  husband,  that  was  all  past  now.  He 
chiefly  thought  of  what  might  have  been,  and  what 
was  not.  what  was,  was  all  summed  up  in  this;  that 
she  was  lost,  and  he  bowed  down  with  sorrow  and 
remorse. 

And  now  he  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  bom  to 
him  in  that  house,  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare 
wide  empty  walls  there  was  a  tie,  mournful,  but  hard  to 
rend  asunaer,  connected  with  a  double  childhood,  and 
a  double  loss.  He  had  thought  to  leave  the  house- 
knowing  he  must  go,  not  knowing  whither — upon  the 
evening  of  the  dav  on  which  this  feeling  first  struck 
root  in  nis  breast;  out  he  resolved  to  stay  another  night, 
and  in  the  night  to  ramble  through  the  rooms  once 
more. 

He  came  out  of  his  solitude  when  it  was  the  dead  of 
night,  and  with  a  candle  in  his  hand  went  softly  up  the 
stairs.  Of  all  the  footmarks  there,  making  them  as 
common  as  the  conmion  street,  there  was  not  one,  he 
thought,  but  had  seemed  at  the  time  to  set  itself  upon 
his  brain  while  he  had  kept  close,  listening.  He  looked 
at  their  number,  and  their  hurrv,  and  contention,— foot 
treading  foot  out,  and  upward  track  and  downward 
jostling  one  another — and  thought,  with  absolute  dread 
and  wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered  during 
that  trial,  and  what  a  changed  man  he  had  cause  to  be. 
He  thought,  besides,  oh  wiis  there,  somewhere  in  the 
world,  a  light  footstep  that  might  have  worn  out  in  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  495 

moment  half  those  marksi—and  bent  his  head,  and 
^ept  as  he  went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  look- 
ing up  towards  the  skylight;  and  a  figure,  childish 
itself,  but  carrying  a  child,  and  singing  as  it  went, 
seemed  to  be  there  again.  Anon,  it  was  the  same 
figure,  alone,  stopping  for  an  instant,  with  suspended 
breath;  the  bright  nair  clustering  loosely  round  its  tear- 
ful face;  and  looking  hack  at  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms:  lately  so  luxurious; 
now  so  bare  and  dismal  and  so  changed,  apparently, 
even  in  their  shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps 
was  as  thick  here;  and  the  same  consideration  of  the 
suffering  he  had  had,  perplexed  and  terrified  him.  Hi- 
began  to  fear  that  all  this  intricacy  in  his  brain  would 
drive  him  mad;  and  that  his  thoughts  already  lost  co- 
herence as  the  foot-prints  did,  and  were  pieced  on  to 
one  another,  witli  the  same  trackless  involutions,  and 
varieties  of  indistinct  shapes. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms 
she  had  lived,  when  she  was  alOne.  He  was  glad  to 
leave  them,  and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance 
of  associations  were  here,  connected  with  his  false 
wife,  his  false  friend  and  servant,  his  false  grounds  of 
pride;  but  he  put  them  all  by  now,  and  only  recalled 
miserably,  weakly,  fondly,  his  two  children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps!  They  had  had  no  respect 
for  the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been; 
he  could  hardly  find  a  clear  space  there,  to  throw  him- 
self down,  on  the  floor,  against  the  wall,  poor  broken 
man,  and  let  his  tears  flow  as  they  would.  He  had  shed 
so  many  tears  here,  long  ago,  that  he  was  less  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  in  this  place  than  in  any  other— per- 
haps, with  that  consciousness,  had  made  excuses  to 
himself  for  coming  here.  Here,  with  stooping  shoul- 
ders and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  he  had  come. 
Here,  thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  he  wept,  alone — a  proud  man,  even  then;  who,  if 
a  kind  hand  could  have  been  stretched  out,  or  a  kind 
face  could  have  looked  in,  would  have  risen  up,  and 
turned  away,  and  gone  down  to  his  cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms, 
again.  He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to 
this  tie  in  the  house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  leu  to 


436  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

him.  He  would  go  to-morrow.  To-morrow  came.  He 
would  go  to-morrow.  Every  night,  within  the  knowl- 
edge of  no  human  creature,  he  came  forth,  and  wan- 
dered through  the  despoiled  house  like  a  ghost. 
Many  a  morning  when  the  day  broke,  his  alteredface, 
drooping  behind  the  closed  blind  in  his  window,  im- 
perfectly transparent  to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered  on 
the  loss  of  his  two  children.  It  was  one  child  no 
more.  He  re-united  them  in  his  thoughts,  and  they 
were  never  asunder.  Oh,  that  he  could  have  united 
them,  in  his  past  love,  and  in  death,  and  that  cue  bad 
not  been  so  much  worse  than  dead! 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no 
novelty  to  him,  even  oefore  his  late  sufferings.  It  never 
is  to  obstinate  and  sullen  natures;  for  they  struggle 
hard  to  be  such.  Ground,  long  undermined,  will  often 
fall  down  in  a  moment;  what  was  undermined  here  in 
so  many  ways,  weakened,  and  crumbled,  little  by  little, 
more  and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  on  the  dial. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all.  He 
might  yet  give  up  what  his  creditors  had  spared  him 
(that  they  had  not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act), 
and  only  sever  the  tie  between  him  and  the  rained 
house,  by  severing  that  other  link — 

It  was  then  that  liis  footfall  was  audible  in  the  late 
housekeeper's  room,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro;  but  not 
audible  in  its  true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an 
appalling  sound. 

The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him.  He 
became  aware  of  that  again.  It  was  whispering  and 
babbling.  It  was  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intricacy 
and  complication  of  the  footsteps  harassed  him  to  death. 
Objects  began  to  take  a  bleared  and  russet  color  in  his 
eyes.  Dombey  and  Son  was  no  more — his  children  uo 
more.     This  must  be  thought  of,  well,  to-morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow;  and  sitting  thinking  iu 
his  chair,  saw  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this  pic- 
ture: 

A  spectral,  hao^ard,  wasted  likeness'  of  himself, 
brooded  and  brooded  over  the  empty  fireplace.  Now  it 
lifted  up  its  head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows  in 
its  face;  now  hung  it  down  again  and  brooded  afresh. 
Now  it  rose  and  walked,  about;  now  passed  into  the 
next  room,  and  came  back  with  something  from  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  42? 

dressing-table  in  its  breast.    Now  it  was  looking  at  the 
bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

Hush!  what? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way 
and  to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a  long  time  going 
so  far.  It  would  move  so  stealthily  aud  slowly,  creep- 
ing on,  with  here  a  lazy  little  poo'l,  and  there  a  start, 
and  then  another  little  pool,  that  a  desperately  wounded 
man  could  only  be  discovered  through  its  means,  either  , 
dead  or  dying.  When  it  had  thought  of  this  a  long 
while,  it  got  up  again,  and  walked  to  and  fro  with  its 
hand  in  its  breast.  He  glanced  at  it  occasionally,  very 
curious  to  watch  its  motions,  and  he  marked  how 
wicked  and  murderous  that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again!    What  was  it  thinking? 

Whether  they  would"  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  crei>t 
BO  far,  and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many 
prints  of  feet,  or  even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fireplace, 
and  as  it  lost  itself  in  tnouglit  there  shone  into  the 
room  a  gleam  of  light;  a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  un- 
mindful, and  sat  tliinking.  Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a 
terrible  face,  and  that  guilty  hand  grasping  what  was 
in  its  breast.  Then  it  was  arrested  by  a  cry — a  wild, 
loud,  piercing,  loving,  rapturous  ciy — and  he  only  saw 
his  own  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  his 
daughter. 

Yes.  His  daughter!  Look  at  her!  Look  here!  Down 
upon  the  grouniT,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him,  fold- 
ing her  hands,  praying  to  him, 

"Papa!  Dearest  papa!  Pardon  me,  forgive  me!  I 
have  come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I 
never  can  be  happy  more,  without  it! " 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged.  Rais- 
ing the  same  face  to  him,  as  on  that  miserable  night. 
Asking  his  forgiveness! 

"Dear  papa,  oh  don't  look  so  strangely  on  me!  I 
never  meant  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it  before 
or  afterwards.  I  was  frightened  when  I  went  away, 
and  could  not  think.  Papa,  dear,  I  am  changed.  I  am 
penitent.  I  know  my  fault.  I  know  my  duty  better 
now.     Papa,  don't  cast  me  off,  or  I  shall  diel" 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms 
about  her  neck:  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  hie;  he 


428  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

felt  her  kisses  on  his  face;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid 
ciyainst  his  own;  he  felt — oh,  how  deeply! — all  that  he 
hail  done. 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the 
heart  that  he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now 
covered  with  his  hands,  and  said  sobbing: 

"  Papa,  love,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who  will 
soon  call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  you, 
.  When  it  was  born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  1  lov*-)! 
it,  1  knew  what  I  had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me, 
dear  papa!  oh  say  Gk>d  bless  me  and  my  little  child! " 

He  would  have  saiii  it  if  he  could.  He  would  have 
raised  his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she 
cimglit  them  in  her  own,  and  put  them  down  hurriedly. 

"  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I  prayed  U> 
Cic>d(and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me  that  I  might 
come  home.  The  moment  I  could  land,  I  came  back  to 
you.  Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa.  Never 
lot  us  be  parted  any  more! " 

His  head,  now  grey,  was  encircled  by  her  arm;  and 
he  groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  reste«l  so 
before. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my 
baby.  A  boy,  papa.  His  name  is  Paul.  I  think— 1 
hope — he's  like — " 

Her  tears  stopped  her, 

"  Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake  of 
the  name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon  Wal- 
ter. He  is  so  kind  and  tender  to  me.  I  am  so  happv 
witli  him.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  we  were  marrim. 
It  was  mine.    I  loved  him  so  much." 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more 
i.\irnest. 

'■  He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  papa,  I  would  die 
for  him.  He  will  love  and  honor  you  as  I  will.  We 
will  teach  our  little  child  to  love  and  honor  you:  and 
wt'  will  tell  him,  when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had 
a  son  of  that  name  once,  and  that  he  died,  and  you  were 
very  sorry;  but  that  he  is  gone  to  Heaven,  where  we  all 
hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  for  resting  comes.  Kiss 
me,  papa,  as  a  promise  that  you  will  be  reconciled  to 
Walter— to  my  dearest  husband— to  the  father  of  the 
little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back,  papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  luick! "' 

D,-:..JL,  Google 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  i'ZO 

As  she  clung  cloeer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  team, 
he  kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said, 
"Oh  my  God,  forgive  me,  for  I  need  it  very  much|" 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over 
and  caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  y,H  the 
house  for  a.  long,  long  time;  they  remaining  clasped  in 
one  another's  arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had 
crept  in  with  Florence, 

He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a  docile  sub- 
mission to  her  entreaty;  and  walking  with  a  feeble 
gait,  and  looking  back,  with  a  tremble,  at  the  room  in 
which  he  had  been  so  long  shut  up,  and  where  he  had 
se<'n  the  picture  in  the  glass,  passed  out  with  her  into 
the  hall.  Florence,  hardly  glancing  roun<l  her,  lest  she 
should  remind  him  freshly  of  their  last  parting — for 
their  feet  were  on  the  very  stones  where  he  had  struck 
her  in  his  madness — and  keeping  close  to  him,  with  her 
eyes  upon  his  face,  and  his  arm  about  her,  led  him  out 
to  a  coaeh  that  was  waiting  at  the  door,  and  carrieil 
him  away. 

Then,  Miss  Tox  and  Polly  came  out  of  their  conceal- 
ment, and  exulted  tearfully.  And  then  they  packed  his 
clothes,  and  books,  and  so  forth,  with  great  care;  and 
consigned  them  in  due  course  to  certain  persons  sent 
by  Florence  in  the  evening,  to  fetch  them.  And  then 
they  took  a  last  cup  of  tea  m  the  lonely  house. 

"  And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I  observed  upon  a  cer- 
tain sad  occasion,"  said  Miss  Tox.  winding  up  a  host 
of  recollections,  "  is  indeed  a  daughter,  Polly,  after 
all." 

"  And  a  good  one! "  exclaimed  Polly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Miss  Tox;  "  and  it's  a  credit  to 
you,  Polly,  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she 
was  a  little  child.  You  were  her  friend  long  before  I 
was,  Polly,"  said  Miss  Tox;  "  and  you're  a  good  crea- 
ture.   Kobin!" 

MisB  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a  bullet-headed  young 
man,  who  appeared  to  be  in  but  indifferent  circum- 
stances, and  in  depressed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting 
in  a  remote  comer.  Rising,  he  disclosed  to  view  the 
form  and  features  of  the  Qnnder. 

"Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "I  have  just  observed  to 
your  mother,  as  you  may  have  heard,  tnat  she  is  a  good 
creature." 


430  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  And  BO  she  is,  miss,"  quoth  the  Grinder,  with  sonic 
feeling. 

"  Yery  well,  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  say  so.  Now,  Kobin,  as  I  am  going  to  give 
you  a  trial,  at  your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestit*, 
with  a  view  to  your  restoration  to  respectability,  I  will 
take  this  impressive  occasion  of  remarking  that  I  hopt' 
that  you  will  never  forget  that  you  have,  and  havti 
always  had,  a  good  mother,  and  that  you  will  endeavor 
so  to  conduct  yourself  as  to  be  a  comfort  to  her," 

"Upon  my  soul  I  will,  miss,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
"  I  have  come  through  a  good  deal,  and  my  intentions 
is  now  as  straightfor'ard,  miss,  as  a  cove's — " 

"I  must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  won!, 
Robin,  if  you  please,"  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely, 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  as  a  chap's — " 

"Thanfeee,  Robin,  no,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "I  should 
prefer  individual," 

"  As  a  indiwiddle's,"  said  the  Grinder. 

"  Much  better,"  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently; 
"  infinitely  more  expressive! " 

"  — can  "be,"  pursued  Rob.  "  If  I  hadn't  been  and  got 
made  a  Grinder  on,  miss  and  mother,  which  was  a  most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  a  young^co— indiwiddle." 

"Very  good  indeed," observed  Miss  Tox,  approvingly. 

" — and  if  I  hadn't  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then 
fallen  into  a  bad  service,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  I  hope  I 
might  have  done  better.     But  it's  never  too  late  for  a—" 

"Indi — "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  widdle,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  to  mend;  and  I  hope  to 
mend,  miss,  with  your  kind  trial;  and  wishing,  mother, 
my  love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  saying 
of  it." 

"I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  observed  Miss 
Tox.  "  Will  you  take  a  little  bread  and  butter,  and  a 
cup  of  tea,  before  we  go,  Robin?" 

"  Thankee,  miss."  returned  the  Grinder:  who  imme- 
diately began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinuers  in  a  most 
remarkable  manner,  as  if  be  had  been  on  very  short  al- 
lowance for  a  considerable  period. 

Miss  Tox  being,  in  good  time,  bonneted  and  shawled, 
and  Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  bis 
new  mistress  away;  so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration 
of  Polly,  that  something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  431 

riaes  round  the  gas-lamps  as  she  looked  after  him, 
Polly  then  put  out  her  light,  locked  the  house-door,  de- 
livered the  Key  at  an  agent's  hard  by,  and  went  home  as 
fast  as  she  could  go;  reioicinc'in  the  shrill  delight  that 
her  unexpected  arrival  would  occasion  there.  The 
great  house,  dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been  suffered  in  it. 
and  the  changes  it  had  witnessed,  stood  frowning  like  a 
dark  mute  on  the  street;  balking  any  nearer  inquiries" 
with  the  staring  announcement  that  the  lease  of  this 
desirable  Family  Mansion  was  to  he  disposed  of. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

CHIEFLY  MATRIMONIAL, 

The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the 
pleasure  of  the  company  of  every  young  gentleman  pur- 
suing his  studies  in  that  genteel  establishment,  at  an 
early  party,  when  the  hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock, 
and  when  the  object  was  quadrilles,  had  duly  taken 
place,  about  this  time;  and  the  young  gentlemen,  with 
no  unbecoming  demonKtrations  of  levity,  had  betaken 
themselves,  in  a  state  of  scholastic  repletion,  to  their 
own  homes.  Mr.  Skettles  had  repaired  abroad,  perma- 
nently to  grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Bar- 
net  3kettles,  whose  popular  manners  had  obtained  him 
a  diplomatic  appointment,  the  honors  of  which  were 
discharged  by  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  to  the  satis- 
faction even  of  their  own  countrymen  and  country- 
women: which  was  considered  almost  miraculous.  Mr, 
Tozer,  now  a  young  man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington 
boots,  was  so  extremely  full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearlv 
on  a  par  with  a  genuine  ancient  Roman  in  his  knowl- 
edge of  English:  a  triumph  that  affected  his  good  par- 
ents with  the  tenderest  emotions,  and  caused  the  father 
and  mother  of  Mr.  Briggs  (whose  learning,  like  ill- 
arranged  luggage,  was  so  tightly  packed  that  he 
couldn't  get  at  anything  he  wanted)  to  hide  their  di- 
minished heads.    The  fruit  laboriously  gathered  from 


432  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  tree  of  knowledge  by  this  latter  voung  gentleman, 
in  fact,  had  been  subjected  to  so  much  pressure,  that  it 
had  become  a  kind  of  intellectual  Nonolk  Biffin,  and 
had  nothing  of  its  original  form  or  flavor  remaining. 
Master  Bitherstone  now,  on  whom  the  forcing  sTstem 
had  the  happier  and  not  uncommon  effect  of  leaving  no 
impression  whatever,  when  the  forcing  apparatus  ceased 
to  work,  was  in  a  much  more  comfortable  plight;  and 
being  then  on  shipboard,  bound  for  Bengal,  found  him- 
Kelf  forgetting,  with  such  admirable  rapidity,  that  it 
was  doubtful  whether  his  declensions  of  noun-sub- 
stantives would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual 
course,  would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the 
morning  of  the  party,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our 
studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month,"  he  departed 
from  the  usual  course,  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  when  our 
friend  Cincinnatus  retired  to  his  farm,  he  did  not  present 
to  the  senate  any  Roman  whom  he  sought  to  nominate  as 
his  successor.  But  there  is  a  Roman  here,"  said  Doctor 
Blimber,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Feeder, 
B,  A.,  "  adolescens  imprimis  gravis  et  docfus,  gentle- 
men, whom  I,  a  retiring  Cincinnatus,  wish  to  present 
to  my  little  senate  as  their  future  Dictator.  Gentlemen, 
we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next 
month,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A."  At 
this  (which  Doctor  Blimber  had  previously  called  upon 
all  the  parents,  and  urbanely  explained),  the  young 
gentlemen  cheered;  and  Mr.  Tozer,  on  behalf  of  the 
rest,  instantly  presented  the  doctor  with  a  silver  ink- 
stand, in  a  speech  containing  very  little  of  the  mother- 
tongue,  but  nf  teen  quotations  from  the  Latin,  and  seven 
from  the  Greek,  which  moved  the  younger  of  the  young 
gentlemen  to  discontent  and  envy;  tney  remarking, 
"Oh,  ah!  It  was  all  very  well  for  old  Tozer,  but  they 
didn't  subscribe  money  for  old  Tozer  to  show^  oflf  with, 
they  supposed;  did  they?  What  business  was  it  of  old 
Tozer's  more  than  anybody  else's?  It  wasn't  his  ink- 
stand. Why  couldn't  he  leave  the  boys'  property  alone?" 
and  murmuring  other  expressions  of  tneir  dissatisfac- 
tion, which  seemed  to  find  a  greater  relief  in  calling 
him  old  Tozer  than  in  any  other  available  vent. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen, 
nor  a  hint  dropped,  of  anything  like  a  contompnated 


BOMBEY  AND  SON".  433 

marriage  between  Mr.  Feeder,  B,  A.,  and  the  fair 
Cornelia  Blimber,  Doctor  Bitmber,  especially,  Beemed 
to  take  painB  to  look  as  if  nothing  would  surprise  him 
more;  but  it  was  perfectly  well  known  to  all  trie  young 
gentlemen  nevertheless,  and  when  fliey  departed  for 
the  society  of  their  relations  and  friends,  they  took 
leave  of  Mr,  Feeder  with  awe. 

Mr.  Feeder's  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled. 
The  doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside, 
and  put  it  in  thorough  repair;  and  to  give  up  the  busi- 
ness, and  to  give  up  Cornelia.  The  painting  and 
repairing  began  upon  the  very  day  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen's departure,  and  now  behoKl!  the  wedding  morn- 
ing was  come,  and  Cornelia,  in  a  new  pair  of  spectacles, 
was  waiting  to  be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar. 

The  doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  in 
a  lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr,  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  long 
knuckles  and  his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr.  Feeder's 
brother,  the  Reverend  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  who  was 
to  perform  the  ceremony,  were  all  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  Cornelia  with  her  orange-flowers 
and  bridesmaids  had  just  come  down,  and  looted,  as  of 
old,  a  little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charming, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  the  weak-eyed  young  man, 
in  a  loud  voice,  made  the  following  proclamation: 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots!  " 

Upon  which  there  entered  Mr.  Toots,  grown  extremely 
stout,  and  on  his  arm  a  lady  very  handsomely  and  be- 
comingly dressed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Blimber,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  allow  me  to  present 
my  wife." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.  Mrs. 
Blimber  was  a  little  condescending,  but  extremely 
kind. 

"And  as  you've  known  me  for  a  long  time,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  "let  me  assure  you  that  she  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  women  that  ever  lived." 

"My  dearl"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

"Upon  my  word  and  honor  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"I — I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she's  a  most  extraor- 
dinary woman." 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her 
to  Cornelia.  Mr.  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that 
direction,  and  having  snh'+oiT  nis  old  preceptor,  who 

28-11 


434  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

said,  in  allusion  to  his  conjugal  state,  "Well  Toots, 
well  Toots!  So  you  are  one  of  us,  are  you,  Toots?"— 
retired  with  Mr.  Feeder^  B.  A,,  into  a  window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  hein^  in  great  spirits,  made  a  spar 
at  Mr.  Toots,  and*tapped  nim  skilfully  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  on  the  breast-bone. 

Well,  old  Buck!"  said  Mr,  Feeder  with  a  laugh. 
"Weill    Here  we  are!    Taken  in  and  done  for.    Eh?" 

"Feeder,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "I  give  you  joy.  If 
you're  as — as — as  perfectly  blissful  in  a  matrimonial  life 
as  I  am  myself,  you'll  have  nothing  to  desire," 

"I  don't  forget  my  old  friends,  you  see,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder.     "  I  ask  'em  to  iny  wedding,  Toots." 

"Feeder,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  gravely,  "the  fact  is. 
that  there  were  several  circumstances  which  preveuted 
me  from  communicating  with  you  until  after  my  mar- 
riage had  been  solemnised.  In  the  first  place,  I  had 
made  a  perfect  brute  of  myself  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Dombey;  and  I  felt  that  if  you  were  asked  to  any 
weddings  of  mine  you  would  naturally  expect  that  it  was 
with  Miss  Dombey,  which  involved  explanations,  that 
upon  my  word  and  honor,  at  that  crisis,  would  have 
knocked  me  completely  over.  In  the  second  place,  our 
wedding  was  strictly  private;  there  being  nobody  pres- 
ent but  one  friend  of  myself  and  Mrs.  Toots's,  who  is  a 
captain  in — I  don't  exactly  know  in  what,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  "  but  it's  of  no  consequence.  I  hope.  Feeder, 
that  in  writing  a  statement  of  what  had  occurred 
before  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon  our 
foreign  tour,  I  fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friend- 
ship." 

"Toots,"  ray  boy,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  hands, 
"  I  was  joking/' 

"  And  now  .Feeder,"  said  Mr.  Toots,"  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union." 

"Capital!"  returned  Mr,  Feeder. 

"You  think  it's  capital,  do  you.  Feeder?"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  solemnly.  "  Then  how  capital  it  must  be  to  Me. 
For  yon  can  never  know  what  an  extraordinary  woman 
that  is." 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  But 
Mr.  Toots  shook  his  head  and  wouldn't  hear  of  that 
bein^  possible. 

'■  You  see,"  said  Mr.  TootB^"what  /  wanted  in  a  wife 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  415 

was — in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  Feeder,  I  had.  Sense 
I — I  had  not,  particularly." 

Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  "Oh  yes,  you  had,  Toots!" 
But  Mr.  Toots  said: 

"  No,  Feeder,  I  had  not.  Why  should  I  disguise  it? 
I  had  not.  I  knew  that  sense  was  There,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  stretching  out  his  hand  towards  his  wife,  "in 
perfect  heaps.  I  had  no  relation  to  object  or  beoffendeil. 
on  the  score  of  station;  for  I  had  no  relation.  I  have 
never  had  anybody  belonging  to  me  but  my  guardian, 
and  him.  Feeder,  I  have  always  considered  as  a  Pirate 
and  a  Corsair.  Therefore,  you  know  it  was  not  likely," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  "that  I  should  take  his  opinion." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  F€;eder. 

"Accordingly,"  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  "I  acted  on  my 
own.  Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I  did  so!  Feederl 
Nobody  but  myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that 
woman's  mind  is.  If  ever  the  Rights  of  Woman,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  are  properly  attended  to,  it  will 
be  through  her  powerful  intellect, — Susan,  my  dear!" 
said  Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of  the  window-cur- 
tains, "pray  do  not  exert  yourself  I " 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,"!  was  only  talking." 

"But,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots," pray  do  not  exert 
yourself.  You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my 
clear  Susan,  exert  yourself.  She's  so  easily  excited," 
said  Mr.  Toots  apart  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  "and  then  she 
forgets  the  medical  man  altogether." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toots  the  neces- 
sity of  caution,  when  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A,,  offered  her  his 
arm  and  led  her  down  to  the  carriages  that  were  in  wait- 
ing to  go  to  church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  Mrs. 
Toots.  Mr.  Toots  escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whoso 
lambent  spectacles  two  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered 
like  moths.  Mr,  Feeder's  brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder. 
M.  A,,  had  already  gone  on,  in  advance,  to  assume  his 
official  functions. 

The  ceremony  was  i)erf  ormed  in  an  admirable  manner. 
Cornelia  with  ner  crisp  little  curls  "  went  in,"  as  the 
Chicken  might  have  said,  with  great  composure;  and 
Doctor  Blimber  gave  her  away  like  a  man  who  had 
<iuite  made  up  his  mind  to  it.  The  gauzy  little  brides- 
maids appeared  to  suffer  most.  Mrs.  Blimber  was 
affected,  but  gently  so;  and  told    the  Reverend  Mr, 


436  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  on  the  way  home,  that  if  she 
could  only  have  seen  Cicero  in  his  retirement  at  Tuscu- 
lum,  she  would  not  have  had  a  wish  now,  ungratified. 

There  was  a  breakfast  afterwards,  limited  to  the  same 
small  party;  at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  were 
tremendous,  and  so  communicated  themselves  to  Mrs. 
Toots,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  several  times  heard  to  observe, 
across  the  table,"  My  dear  Susan,  don't  exert  yourself  1 " 
The  best  of  it  was  that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  make  a  speech;  and  in  spite  of  a  whole  code  of 
telegraphic  dissuasions  from  Mrs.  Toots,  appeared  od 
his  legs  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"I  really,"  said  Mr.  Toots,"  in  this  house,  where  what- 
ever was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of — of  any  mental  con- 
fusion sometimes — wliich  is  no  consequence  and  I  im- 
pute to  nobody — I  was  always  treatea  like  one  of  J)ov- 
tor  Blimber's  family  andhad  a  desk  to  myself  foracon- 
siderable  period — can — not — allow — my  friend  Feeder 
to  be —  " 

Mrs.  TootB  suggested  "married." 

"  It  may  not  ckj  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  or  alto- 
gether uninteresting,'  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  delighted 
face,  "  to  observe  that  my  wife  is  a  most  extraordinary 
woman,  and  would  do  this  much  better  than  myself— 
allow  ray  friend  Feeder  to  be  married — especially  to —  " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "  to  Miss  Blimber, 

"  To  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love!  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  of  private  discussion:  "'whom  God  hath 
joined,'  you  know,  'let  no  man' — don't  you  know?  I 
cannot  allow  my  friend,Feeder,  to  be  married — especially 
to  Mrs.  Feeder — without  proposing  their — their — Toasts; 
and  may,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  wife,  as 
if  for  inspiration  in  a  high  flight,  "may  the  torch  of 
Hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy,  and  may  the  flowers  we 
have  this  day  strewed  in  tneir  path,  be  the — the  banish- 
ers  of — of  gloom! " 

Doctor  Blimber,  who  had  a  taste  for  metaphor,  was 
pleased  with  this,and  said,  "  Very  good,  Tootsl  Very  well 
said,  indeed.  Toots!"  and  nodded  his  head  and  patted 
his  hands.  Mr.  Feeder  made  in  reply,  a  comic  speech 
chequered  with  sentiment.  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A., 
was  afterwards  very  happy  on  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber; 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  scarcely  less  so,  on  the  gauzy  littli^ 
bridesmaids.     Doctor  Blimber  then  in  a  sonorous  voice 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  437 

delivered  a  few  thoughts  in  the  pastoral  style,  relative 
to  the  rushes  among  wliich  it  was  the  intention  of  him- 
self and  Mrs.  Blimoer  to  dwell,  and  the  bee  that  would 
hum  around  their  cot.  Shortly  after  which,  as  the  doc- 
tor's eyes  were  twinkling  in  a  remarkable  manner,  and 
his  son-in-law  had  already  observed  that  time  was  madi; 
for  slaves,  and  had  inquired  whether  Mrs.  Touts  sang, 
the  discreet  Mrs.  Blimter  dissolved  the  sitting  and  sent 
Cornelia  away,  very  cool  and  comfortable,  in  a  post- 
chaise,  with  the  man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs,  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs. 
Toots  had  been  there  before  in  old  times,  under  her 
maiden  name  of  Nipper),  and  there  found  a  letter,  which 
it  took  Mr.  Toots  such  an  enormous  time  to  read,  that 
Mrs.  Toots  was  frightened. 

'■  My  dear  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  fright  is  worse 
than  exertion.     Pray  be  calm!" 

"  Who  is  it  from?  "  asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

"  Why,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  from  Captain 
Gills.  Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walters  and  Miss  Dom- 
bey  are  expected  home!" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly 
from  the  sofa,  very  pale,  "don't  try  to  deceive  me,  for 
it's  no  use,  they're  come  home — I  see  it  plainly  in  your 
face! " 

"  She's  a  most  extraordinary  woman! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Toots  in  rapturous  admiration.  '^  You're  perfectly  right 
my  love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey  has  seen 
her  father,  and  they  are  reconciled! " 

"  Reconciled! "  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots;  "  pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. Do  remember  the  medical  man!  Captain  Gills 
says — at  least  he  don't  say,  but  I  imagine,  from  what  I 
can  make  out,  he  means — that  Miss  Dombey  has  brought 
her  unfortunate  father  away  from  his  old  house,  to  one 
where  she  and  Walters  are  living;  that  he  is  lying  very 
ill  there — supposed  to  be  dying;  and  that  she  attends 
upon  him  night  and  day!" 

Mrs.  Toots  begaji  to  cry  quite  bitterly, 

"  My  dearest  Susan,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  do,  do,  if 
you  possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man!  If  you 
can't,  it's  of  no  consequence — but  do  endeavor  to! " 

His  wife,  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  restored,  so 
pathetically  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  her  precious 


438  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pet,  her  little  mistress,  her  own  darling,  and  the  hie, 
that  Mr,  Toots,  whose  sympathy  and  admiration  were  of 
the  strongest  kind,  consented  from  his  very  heart  of 
hearts;  and  they  agreed  to  depart  immediately  and  pre- 
sent themselves  in  answer  to  the  captain's  letter. 

Now  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coio- 
cidences.  had  that  day  brought  the  captain  himself  (to- 
ward whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journeying), 
into  the  flowery  train  of  wedlock;  not  as  a  principal, 
hut  as  an  accessory.     It  happened  accidentally  and  thus: 

The  captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  haby  for  a 
moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  ^d  having  had  a 
long  talk  with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a  walk;  feelingit 
necessary  to  have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the 
changes  of  human  affairs,  and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat 
profoundly  over  the  fall  of  Mr.  Dombey,  for  whom  the 
generosity  and  simplicity  of  his  nature  were  awakened 
m  a  lively  manner.  The  captain  would  have  been  very 
low,  indeed,  on  the  unhappy  gentleman's  account,  but 
for  the  recollection  of  the  oaby;  which  afforded  him 
such  intent  satisfaction  whenever  it  arose,  that  he 
laughed  aloud  as  he  went  along  the  street,  and  indeed, 
more  than  once,  in  a  sudden  impulse  of  joy,  threw  up 
his  glazed  bat  and  caught  it  again;  much  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  spectators.  The  rapid  alternations  of  light 
and  shade  to  which  these  two  conflicting  subjects  of  re- 
flection exposed  the  captain,  were  so  very  trying  to  his 
spirits,  that  he  felt  a  long  walk  necessary  to  his  com- 

f)08ure;  and  as  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  influence  of 
larmoniouB  associations,  he  chose,  for  the  scene  of  this 
walk,  his  old  neighborhood,  down  among  the  mast,  oar, 
and  block-makers,  ship-biscuit  bakers,  coal-whippers, 
pitch-kettles,  sailors,  canals,  docks,  swing-bridges,  and 
other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  particularly  the  region  of 
Lime -house-Hole  and  thereabouts,  were  so  influential  in 
calming  the  captain,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored 
tranquillity,  and  was,  in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under 
his  breath,  with  the  ballad  of  Lovely  Peg,  when,  on 
turning  a  corner,  he  was  suddenly  transfize^i  and  ren- 
dered speechless  by  a  triumphant  procession  that  he  be- 
held advancing  towards  him. 

This  awful  demonstration  was  headed  by  that  deter- 
lained    woman,    Mrs.  'SA.sfccSW'B^eT,  -w^io,  ^T«*feW\as(,  ^ 


DOSfBEY  AND  SON.  4:i;> 

countenance  of  inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  cun- 
spicuously  attached  to  herobdurate  bosom  a  stupendous 
watch  ajid  appendages,  which  the  captain  recognised 
at  a  glance  as  the  property  of  Bunsby,  conducted  under 
her  arm  no  other  than  that  sagacious  mariner;  he,  witJi 
the  distraught  and  melancholy  visage  of  a  captive 
borne  into  a  foreign  land,  meekly  resigning  himself  to 
'  her  will.  Behind  them  appeared  the  young  MacSting- 
ers,  in  a  body,  exulting.  Behind  them,  two  ladies  of  a 
terrible  and  steadfast  aspect,  leading  between  them  a 
short  gentleman  in  a  tall  nat.  who  likewise  exulted.  In 
the  wake  appeared  Eunsby's  boy,  bearing  umbrellaa. 
The  whole  were  in  good  marching  order;  and  a  dreadful 
smartness  that  pervaded  the  party  would  have  suffi- 
ciently announced,  if  the  intrepid  countenances  of  the 
ladies  had  been  wanting,  that  it  was  a  procession  of 
sacrifice,  and  that  the  victim  was  Bunsby. 

The  first  Impulse  of  the  captain  was  to  run  away. 
This  also  appeared  to  be  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby, 
hopeless  as  its  execution  must  have  proved.  But  a  cry 
of  recognition  proceeding  from  the  party,  and  Alexan- 
der MacStinger  running  up  to  the  captain  with  open 
arms,  the  captain  struck. 

"  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle! "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  This 
is  indeed  a  meeting!  I  bear  no  malice  now,  Cap'en 
.  Cuttle — you  needn't  fear  that  I'm  a  going  to  cast  any  re- 
flections. I  hope  to  go  to  the  altar  in  another  spirit." 
Here  Mrs.  MacStinger  paused,  and  drawing  herself  up, 
and  inflating  her  bosom  with  a  long  breath,  said,  in  al- 
lusion to  the  victim,  "  My  'usband,  Cap'en  Cuttle!" 

The  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight 
before  him  at  nothing.  The  captain  putting  out  nis 
hand,  Bunsby  put  out  his;  but,  in  answer  to  the  cap- 
tain's greeting,  spake  no  word. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  if  you  would 
wish  to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see  the  last  of 
your  friend,  my^usband,  as  a  single  person,  we  should 
be  'appy  of  your  company  to  chapel.  Here  is  a  lady 
here,  said  Mrs.  MacStmger,  turning  round  to  the  more 
intrepid  of  the  two,  "my  bridesmaid,  that  will  be  glad 
of  your  protection,  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  b,at,-w\io  ifc  a?^^'«t'^ 
was  the  busband  of  the  other  lady,  atnA.  "^Vo  «s\&.<ei«i^ 


440  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

exulted  at  the  reduction  of  a  fellow-creature  to  his  own 
condition,  gave  place  at  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  t« 
Captain  Cuttle.  The  lady  immediately  seized  him,  and, 
observing  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  gave  the  word, 
in  a  strong  voice,  to  advance. 

The  captain's  concern  for  his  friend,  not  unmingled, 
nt  first,  with  some  concern  for  himself— for  a  shaaowy 
terror  that  he  might  be  married  by  violence,  possessed 
liim,  until  his  knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  re- 
lief, and  remembering  the  legal  obligation  of  saying. 
"I  will,"  he  felt  himself  personally  safe  so  long  as  he 
resolved,  if  asked  any  question,  distinctly  to  reply,  '"1 
won't" — threw  him  mto  a  profuse  perspiration;  and 
rendered  him,  for  a  time,  insensible  to  the  movements 
of  the  procession,  of  which  he  now  formed  a  feature, 
and  to  the  conversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But  as 
he  became  less  agitated,  he  learnt  from  this  lady  that 
she  was  the  widow  of  a  Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an 
employment  in  the  Custom  House;  that  she  was  the 
(h^arest  friend  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  whom  she  consid- 
ered a  pattern  for  her  sex;  that  she  had  often  heard  of 
the  captain,  and  now  hoped  he  had  repented  of  his  past 
life:  that  she  trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a  blessing 
he  had  gained,  but  that  she  feared  men  seldom  did 
know  what  such  blessings  were,  until  they  had  lost 
them;  with  more  to  the  same  purpose, 

AH  this  time,  the  captain  could  not  but  observe  that 
Mrs.  Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom, 
and  that  whenever  they  came  near  a  court  or  other  nar- 
row turning  which  appeared  favorable  for  flight,  she 
was  on  the  alert  to  cut  him  off  if  he  attempted  escape. 
The  other  lady,  too,  as  well  as  her  husband,  the  short 
gentleman  with  the  tall  hat,  were  plainly  on  guard,  ac- 
cording to  a  preconcerted  plan;  and  the  wretched  man 
was  so  secured  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  that  any  effort  at 
self-preservation  by  flight  was  rendered  futile.  This, 
indeed,  was  apparent  to  the  mere  populace,  w^ho  ex- 
pressed their  perception  of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries; 
to  all  of  which,  the  dread  MacStinger  was  inflexibly  in- 
different, while  Bunsby  himself  appeared  in  a  state  of 
unconsciousness. 

The  captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  phi- 
losopher, if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal:  but 
always  failed,  in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  441 

guard,  and  the  difficulty,  at  all  times  peculiar  to  Buns- 
By's  constitution,  of  having  his  attention  aroused  by  any 
outward  and  visible  sign  whatever.  Thus  they  ap- 
proached the  chapel,  a  neat  whitewashed  eaifice, 
recently  engaged  by  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Howler, 
who  had  consented,  on  very  ui^ent  solicitation,  to  give 
the  world  aifother  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  in- 
formed his  followers  that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up 
some  extemporary  orisons,  the  captain  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  growling  in  the  bridegroom's  ear: 

"  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?" 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a  forgetfulness  of  the 
Reverend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing  out  his  desperate 
circumstances  could  have  excused: 

"D— dbad." 

"Jack  Bimsby,"  whispered  the  captain,  "do  you  do 
this  here,  o'  your  own  free  will?" 

Mr.  BuDsby  answered  '-'No." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad?"  inquired  the  cap- 
tain, not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  im- 
movable countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world, 
made  no  reply. 

"  Why  not  sheer  off? "  said  the  captain. 

"Eh?"  whispered  Bunsby,  with  a  momentary  gleam 
of  hope. 

"  Sneer  off,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Where's  the  good  ? "  retorted  the  forlorn  sage. 
"  She'd  capter  me  agen." 

"Try!"  replied  the  captain.  "Cheer  up!  Come! 
Now's  your  time. .  Sheer  off.  Jack  Bunsby! " 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the  ad- 
vice, said  in  a  doleful  whisper: 

"  It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o'  your'n.  Why  did 
I  ever  conwoy  her  into  port  that  night?  " 

"  My  lad,"  faltered  the  captain,  "I  thought  as  you  had 
come  over  her-  not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A  man 
as  has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have!" 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 

"Come!"  said  the  captain,  nudging  him  with  his 
elbow,  "now's  your  time!  Sheer  off!  I'll  cover  your 
retreat.  The  time's  a  flying,  Bunsby!  It's  for  liberty. 
Will  you  once?" 


U3  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bunnby  was  immovable. 

"  Buiisby! "  whispered  the  captain,  "  will  you  twic 

Bunsby  wouldn't  twice. 

"Bunsby!"  urged  the  captain,  "it's  for  liberty;  a 
you  three  times?    Now  or  never! " 

Bunsby  didn't  then,  and  didn't  ever;  for  Mrs.  M 
Stinger  immediately  afterwards  married  iflm. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  ce 
mony  to  the  captain,  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibit 
therein  by  Juliana  MacStinger;  and  the  fatal  concent, 
tion  of  her  faculties,  with  which  that  promising  chi 
already  the  image  of  her  parent,  observed  the  whi 
proceedings.    The  captain  saw  in  this  a  succession 
man-traps  stretching  out  infinitely,  a  series  of  a^es 
oppression  and  coercion,  through  which  the  seanirii 
line  was  doomed.     It  was  a  more  memorable  eieht  th; 
the  unflinching  steadiness  of  Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  oth 
lady,  the  exultation  of  the  short  gentleman  in  the  tau 
hat,  or  even  the  fell  inflexibility  of  Mrs.  MacStinger. 
The  Master  MacStingers  understood  little  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  cared  less;  being  chiefly  engaged,  during 
tlie  ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  another  s  naif  boots: 
but  the  contrast  afforded  oy  those  wretched  infants  only 
set  off  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in  Juliana. 
Another  year  or  two,  the  captain  thought,  and  to  lodge 
where  that  child  was,  would  be  destruction. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded  by  a  general  spring  of 
the  young  family  on  Mr.  Bunsby,  whom  they  hailed  by 
the  endearing  name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  so- 
licted  half-pence.  These  gushes  of  affection  over,  the 
procession  was  about  to  issue  forth  again;  when  it  was 
delayed  for  some  little  time  by  an  unejipected  transport 
on  the  part  of  Alexander  MacStinger.  That  dear  child, 
it  seemed,  connecting  a  chapel  with  tomb-stones,  when 
it  was  entered  for  any  purpose  apart  from  the  ordinary 
religious  exercises,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  his 
mother  was  now  to  be  decently  interred,  and  lost  to  him 
for  ever.  In  the  anguish  of  this  conviction,  he  screamed 
with  astonishing  force,  and  turned  black  in  the  face. 
However  touching  these  marks  of  a  tender  disposition 
were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the  character  of  that 
remarkable  woman  to  permit  her  recognition  of  them 
to  degenerate  into  weakness.  Therefore,  after  vainly 
endeavoring  to  convVnce  \\\%  ^easssaVj  ■^w^^^,  -^tes. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  443 

bawlings-out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,*  sho 
led  him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method;  which 
was  manifested  to  the  marriage  party  by  a  quick  succeB- 
sion  of  sharp  sounds,  resembling:  applause,  and  subse- 
quently, by  their  seeing  Alexander  m  contact  with  the 
coolest  paving-stone  in  the  court,  greatly  Pushed  and 
loudly  lamentmg. 

The  procession  being  then  in  condition  to  form  itself 
once  more,  and  repair  to  Brig  Place,  where  a  marriage 
feast  was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come;  not 
without  the  receipt,  by  Bunsby,  of  many  humorous  con- 

fratulations  from  the  populace  on  his  recently-acquired 
appiness.  The  captain  accompanied  it  as  far  as  the 
house-door,  but,  being  made  uneasy  by  the  gentler 
manner  of  Mrs.  Bokum,  who,  now  that  she  was  relieved 
from  her  engrossing  duty— for  tb^e  watchfulness  and 
alacrity  of  tne  ladies  sensibly  diminished  when  the 
bridegroom  was  safely  married — had  greater  leisure  to 
show  an  interest  in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and  the  cap- 
tive; faintly  pleading  an  appointment,  and  promising  to 
return  presently.  The  captain  had  another  cause  for 
uneasiness,  in  remorsefully  reflecting  that  he  had  been 
the  first  means  of  Bunsby 's  entrapment,  though  certainly 
without  intending  it,  and  throuch  his  unbounded  faith 
in  the  resources  of  that  philosopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man's, and  not  first  go  round  to  ask  how  Mr,  Dombey 
was — albeit  the  house  where  he  lay  was  out  of  London, 
and  away  on  the  borders  of  a  fresh  heath — was  quite 
out  of  the  captain's  course.  So  he  got  a  lift  when  he 
was  tired,  and  made  out  the  journey  gaily. 

The  blinds  were  pulled  down,  and  the  house  so  quiet 
that  the  captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock;  hut  listen- 
ing at  the  door  he  heard  low  voices  within,  very  near  it, 
and,  knocking  softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr. 
Toots  and  his  wife  had,  in  fact,  just  arrived  there;  hav- 
ing been  at  the  Midshipman's  to  seek  him,  and  having 
there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived  but  that  Mrs.  Toots 
had  caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in  her 
arms  and  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fondling 
it.  Florence  was  stooping  down  beside  her;  and  no  one 
could  have  said  which  Mrs.  Toots  was  hu^^a%  ^vA 
fondling  most,  the  mother  or  the  c\\\\d,  ot  ■w\w^\"«^ws.'C»»' 


Digiiizcdt*  Google 


444  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tenderer,  Florence  of  Mrs.  Toots,  or  Mrs.  Toots  of  her, 
or  both  of  the  baby;  it  was  such  a  little  group  of  love 
and  agitation, 

"And  is  your  Pavery  ill,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy?" 
asked  Susan. 

"He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence,  "But  Susan 
dear,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak. 
And  what's  this?"  said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes 
in  amazement.  "  Your  old  dress,  dear?  Your  old  cap. 
curls  and  all?" 

Susan  burst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  the 
little  hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wonderingly. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stepping 
forward,  "  I'll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary 
woman.  There  are  not  many  to  equal  her.  She  has 
always  said — she  sard  before  we  were  married,  and  has 
said  to  this  day — that  whenever  yoii  came  home,  she'd 
come  to  you  in  no  dress  but  the  dress  she  used  to  serve 
3«ou  in,  for  fear  she  might  seem  strange  to  you,  and  you 
might  like  her  less.  I  admire  the  dress  myself,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  "of  all  things.  I  adore  her  in  it!  My  dear 
Miss  Dombey,  she'll  be  your  maid  again,  your  nurse,  all 
that  she  ever  was,  and  more.  There's  no  change  in  her. 
But  Susan,  my  dear,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  who  had  spoken 
with  great  feeling  and  high  admiration,  "  all  I  ask  is, 
that  you'll  remember  the  medical  man,  and  not  exert 
yourself  too  much!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

RBLBNTINO. 

Flokbnce  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of  it 
was  sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invaluable. 
Death  stood  at  his  pillow.  A  shade,  already,  of  what 
he  had  been,  shattered  in  mind,  and  perilously  sick  in 
body,  he  laid  his  weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his 
daughter's  hands  prepared  for  him,  and  had  never 
raised  it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him.  He  knew  her,  generally: 
though,  in  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  often  con- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  445 

fused  the  circumstances  under  which  he  spoke  to  her. 
Thus  he  would  address  her,  sometimes,  as  if  his  boy 
were  newly  dead;  and  would  tell  her  that,  although  he 
had  said  nothing  of  her  ministering  at  the  little  bed- 
side, yet  he  had  seen  it — he  had  seen  it;  and  then  would 
hide  tiis  face  and  sob,  and  put  out  his  worn  band. 
Sometimes  he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  "Where  is 
Florence?"  "  I  am  here,  papa,  I  am  here."  "  I  don't 
know  her! "  he  would  cry.  "  We  have  been  parted  so 
long,  that  I  don't  know  her! "  and  then  a  staring  dread 
would  be  upon  him,  until  she  could  soothe  his  perturba- 
tion; and  recall  the  tears  she  tried  bo  hard,  at  other 
times,  to  dry. 

He  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits — 
through  many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened 
— sometimes  for  hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish 
question,  "What  is  money?"  and  ponder  on  it,  and 
tnink  about  it,  and  reason  with  himself,  more  or  less 
connectedly,  for  a  good  answer;  as  if  it  had  never  been 
proposed  to  him  until  that  moment.  He  would  go  on 
with  a  musing  repetition  of  the  title  of  his  ola  firm 
twenty  thousand  times,  and,  at  every  one  of  them, 
would  turn  his  head  upon  his  pillow.  He  would  count 
his  children — one — two — stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin 
again  in  the  same  wa^. 

But  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted 
state.  In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those 
to  which  it  was  most  constant,  it  always  turned  on 
Florence.  What  he  would  oftenest  do  was  this:  he 
would  recall  that  night  he  had  so  recently  remembered, 
the  night  on  which  she  came  to  his  room,  and  would 
imagine  that  his  heart  smote  him,  and  that  he  went  out 
after  her,  and  up  the  stairs  to  seek  her.  Then,  con- 
founding that  time  with  the  later  days  of  the  many 
footsteps,  he  would  be  amazed  at  their  number,  and 
begin  to  count  them  as  he  foUow'ed  her.  Here,  of  a 
sudden,  was  a  bloody  footstep  going  on  among  the 
others;  and  after  it  there  began  to  be,  at  intervals, 
doors  standing  open,  through  which  certain  terrible 
pictures  were  seen,  in  mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  con- 
cealing something  in  their  breasts.  Still,  among  the 
many  footsteps  and  the  bloody  footsteps  here  and  there, 
was  the  step  of  Florence.  Still  she  was  going  on  be- 
fore.   Still  the  restless  mind  went,  following  and  count- 


446  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ing,  ever  farther,  ever  higher,  as  to  the  summit  o 
mighty  tower  that  it  took  years  to  climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  tnat  were  not  Susan  who  I 
spoken  a  long  while  ago. 

Florence  Baid  "Yes,  .dear  papa;"  and  asked  I 
would  he  like  to  see  her. 

He  said  "  very  much."  And  Susan,  with  no  lit 
trepidation,  showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  i 
to  go;  to  understand  that  he  forgave  her  what  she  h 
said;  and  that  she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  we 
very  different  now,  he  said,  and  very  happy.  Let  h 
look  at  this!  He  meant  his  drawing  the  gentle  he 
down  to  his  pillow,  and  laying  it  beside  him. 

He  remained  like  this  for  days  and  weeks.  At  lengtu, 
lying  the  faint,  feeble  semblance  of  a  man  upon  his 
bed,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  that  they  could 
only  hear  him  by  listening  very  near  to  his  lips,  he  be- 
came quiet.  It  was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now,  to  lie 
there,  with  the  window  open,  looking  out  at  the  sum- 
mer sky  and  the  trees:  and,  in  the  evening,  at  the 
sunset.  To  watch  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  and 
leaves,  and  seem  to  feel  a  sympathy  with  shadows.  It 
was  natural  that  he  should.  To  him,  life  and  the 
world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to  show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence's 
fatigue;  and  often  taxed  his  weakness  to  w^hisper  to 
her,  "go  and  walk,  my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go 
to  your  good  husband!"  One  time  when  Walter  was 
in  his  room,  he  beckoned  him  to  come  near,  and  to 
stoop  down;  and  pressing  his  liarid,  whispered  an  as- 
s;iiranco  to  him  that  he  knew  he  could  trust  him  with 
bin  chitd  when  he  was  dead. 

It  chanced  one  evening,  towards  sunset,  when  Flor- 
ence and  Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as 
)i')  liked  to  see  tlieifl,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in 
lier  arms,  began,  in  a  low  voice,  to  sing  to  the  littU' 
ftllow,  and  sang  the  old  tune  she  had  so  often  sung  tci 
the  dead  child.  He  could  not  bear.it  at  the  time;  he 
lield  up  his  trembling  hand,  imploring  her  to  stop;  but 
next  day  he  asked  her  to  repeat  it,  and  to  do  so  often  of 
an  evening:  which  she  did.  He  listening,  with  his  face 
turned  away, 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a  certain  time  by  his  window. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  447 

with  her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant, 
who  was  still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen 
into  a  doze.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours 
of  light  to  come  yet;  and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet 
made  Florence  very  thoughtful.  She  was  lost  to  every- 
thing for  the  moment,  but  the  occasion  when  the  so 
altered  figure  on  the  bed  had  first  presented  her  to  her 
beautiful  mama;  when  a  touch  from  Walter,  leaning  on 
the  back  of  her  chair,  made  her  start. 

"My  dear,"  said  Walter,  "there  is  some  one  down- 
stairs who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

She  fancied  Walter  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if 
anything  had  happened. 

"  No,  no,  my  love!  "  said  Walter.  "  I  have  seen  the 
gentleman  myself,  and  spoken  with  him.  Nothing  has 
happened.     Will  you  come?" 

Florence  put  her  arm  through  his;  and  confiding  her 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  orisk 
and  smart  at  her  work  as  black -eyed  woman  could,  ac- 
companied her  husband  down-stairs.  In  the  pleasant 
little  parlor  opening  on  the  garden  sat  a  gentleman, 
who  rose  to  advance  towards  her  when  she  came  in, 
but  turned  off,  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity  in  his 
legs,  and  was  only  stopped  by  the  table. 

Florence  then  rememoerea  Cousin  Feenix,  whom  she 
had  not  at  first  recognised  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves. 
Cousin  Feenix  took  her  hand,  and  congratulated  her 
upon  her  marriage, 

"I  could  have  wished,  I  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Fee- 
nix. sitting  down  as  Florence  sat,  "  to  have  had  an 
earlier  opportunity  of  offering  my  congratulations;  but. 
in  point  of  fact,  so  many  painful  occurrences  have 
happened,  treading,  as  a  man  may  say,  on  one  another's 
heels,  that  I  have  been  in  a  devil  of  a  state  myself,  and 
perfectly  unfit  for  every  description  of  society.  The 
only  description  of  society  I  have  kept,  has  been  my 
own:  and  it  certainly  is  anything  but  flattering  to  a 
man  s  good  opinion  of  his  own  resources,  to  know  that, 
in  point  of  fact,  he  has  the  capacity  of  boring  himself 
to  a  perfectly  unlimited  extent. 

Florence  divined,  from  some  indefinable  constraint 
and  anxiety  in  this  gentleman's  manner — which  was 
always  a  gentleman's,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  little 
eccentricities  that  attached  to  it — and  from  Walter's 


448  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

manner  no  less,  that  something  more  immediately  tend- 
ing to  some  object  was  to  follow  this. 

"  I  have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Gay,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  have  the  honor  of  calling  him  so," 
said  Cousin  Feenix,  "that  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that 
my  friend  Domhey  is  very  decidedly  mending,  I  trust 
my  friend  Dombey  will  not  allow  his  mind  to  be  too 
much  preyed  upon,  by  any  mere  loss  of  fortime.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  experienced  any  very  great 
loss  of  fortune  myself:  never  having  had,  in  point  of 
fact,  any  great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose.  But  as  much 
as  I  could  lose,  I  have  lost;  and  I  don't  find  that  I 
particularly  care  about  it.  I  know  my  friend  Dombey 
to  be  a  devilish  honorable  man;  and  it's  calculated  to 
console  my  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to  know,  that 
this  is  the  universal  sentiment.  Even  Tommy  Screw- 
zer, — man  of  an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  my 
friend  Gay  is  probably  acquainted— cannot  say  a  syl- 
lable in  disputation  of  the  fact," 

Florence  felt,  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  some- 
thing to  come;  and  looked  earnestly  for  it.  80  earnestly, 
that  Cousin  Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "that  my  friend 
Gay  and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of 
entreating  a  favor  at  your  hands;  and  that  I  nave  the 
consent  of  my  friend  Gay — who  has  met  me  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly kind  and  open  manner,  for  which  I  am  very 
much  mdebted  to  him — to  solicit  it.  I  am  sensible  that 
so  amiable  a  lady  as  the  lovelv  and  accomplished  daugh- 
ter of  my  friend  Dombey  will  not  require  much  ui^ng; 
biit  I  am  happy  to  know,  that  I  am  supported  by  my 
friend  Gay's  influence  and  approval.  As  in  my  parlia- 
mentary time,  when  a  man  had  a  motion  to  make  of 
any  sort — which  happened  seldom  in  those  days,  for  we 
were  kept  very  tight  in  hand,  the  leaders  on  both  sides 
being  regular  martinets,  which  was  a  devilish  good 
thing  for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and  prevented 
our  exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a  great  many  of 
us  had  a  feverish  anxiety  to  do— as,  in  my  parliament- 
ary time,  I  was  about  to  say,  when  a  man  had  leave  to 
let  oflF  any  little  private  pop-gun,  it  was  always  con- 
sidered a  great  point  for  nim  to  say  that  he  had  the 
happiness  of  believing  that  his  sentiments  were  not 
without  an  echo  in  the  breast  of  Mr,  Pitt;  the  pilot,  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  449 

point  of  fact,  who  had  weathered  the  storm.  Upon 
which,  a  devilish  large  number  of  fellows  immediately 
cheered,  and  put  him  in  spirits.  Though  the  fact  is, 
that  these  fellows,  being  under  orders  to  cheer  moat  ex- 
cessively whenever  Mr.  .Pitt's  name  was  mentioned, 
became  so  proficient  that  it  always  woke  'em.  And  they 
were  so  innocent  of  what  was  going  on,  otherwise,  that, 
it  used  to  be  commonly  said  by  Conversation  Brown — 
four  bottle  man  at  the  Treasury  board,  with  whom  the 
father  of  my  friend  Gay  was  probably  acquainted,  for 
it  was  before  my  friend  Gay's  time — that  if  a  man  had 
risen  in  his  place,  and  s'aid  that  he  regretted  to  inform 
the  house  that  there  was  an  honorable  member  in  the 
last  stage  of  convulsions  in  the  Lobby,  and  that  the 
honorable  member's  name  was  Pitt,  tne  approbation 
would  have  been  vociferoua," 

This  postponement  of  the  point,  put  Plorence  in  a 
flutter;  and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter, 
in  increasing  agitation. 

"My  love,  said  Walter,  "there  is  nothing  the  mat- 
ter, " 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honor,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix;  "and  I  am  deeply  distressed  at  being 
the  means  of  causing  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  1 
beg  to  assure  you  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The 
favor  that  I  have  to  ask  is,  simply— but  it  really  does 
seem  so  exceeding  singular,  that  I  should  be  in  the  last 
degree  obliged  to  my  friend  Gay  if  he  would  have  the 

goodness  to  break  the— in  point  of  fact,  the  ice,"  said 
ousin  Feenix. 

Walter  thus  appealed  to,  and  appealed  to  no  less  in 
the  look  that  Florence  turned  towards  him,  said: 

"  My  dearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you  will 
ride  to  London  with  this  gentleman,  whom  you  know." 

"And  my  friend  Gay,  also — ^I  beg  your  pardon!" 
interrupted  Cousin  Feenix. 

" — And  with  me — and  make  a  visit  somewhere." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Florence,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"If  I  might  entreat,"  said  Cousin  Feenix^  "that  you 
would  not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  question,  I  would 
venture  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  the  request." 

"  Do  you  know,  Walter?"  said  Florence. 

"  Yes."  C;ooglc 


450  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  And  think  it  right?  " 

"  Yes.  Only  because  I  am  sure  that  you  would,  too. 
Though  there  may  be  reasons  I  very  well  understand, 
which  make  it  better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said 
beforehand." 

"If  papa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is  awakp, 
I  will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  rising 
quietly,  and  glancing  at  them  with  a  look  that  was  a 
little  alarmed  but  perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  companv, 
they  were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window;  and 
Florence  could  not  but  wonder  what  the  topic  -was.  that 
had  made  them  so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a  time. 
She  did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  pride  and  love  with 
which  her  husband  broke  off  as  she  entered;  for  she 
never  saw  him,  but  that  rested  on  her. 

"  I  will  leave,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  a  card  for  my 
friend  Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up 
health  and  strength  witfi  every  returning  hour.  Audi 
hope  my  friend  Dombey  will  do  me  the  favor  to  consider 
me  a  man  who  has  a  devilish  warm  admiration  of  his 
character,  as,  in  point  of  fact,  a  British  merchant  and  a 
devilish  upright  gentleman.  My  place  in  the  country  is 
in  a  most  confounded  state  of  dilapidation,  but  if  my 
friend  Dombey  should  require  a  change  of  air,  and 
would  take  his  quarters  there,  he  would  find  it  a  remark- 
ably healthy  spot— as  it  need  he,  for  it's  amazingly 
dull.  If  my  friend  Dombey  suffers  from  bodily  weak- 
ness, and  would  allow  me  to  recommend  what  has  fre- 
quently done  myself  good,  as  a  man  who  has  been  ex- 
tremely queer  at  times,  and  who  lived  pretty  freely  in 
the  days  when  men  lived  very  freely,  I  should  say,  let 
it  be  in  point  of  fact  the  yolk  of  an  egg,  beat  up  with 
sugar  and  nutmeg,  in  a  glass  of  sherry,  and  taken  in 
the  morning  with  a  slice  of  dry  toast.  Jackson,  who 
kept  the  boxing-rooms  in  Bond-street — man  of  very  su- 
perior qualifications,  with  whose  reputation  my  friend 
Ciay  is  no  doubt  acquainted — used  to  mention  that  in 
traming  for  the  ring  they  substituted  rum  for  sherry. 
I  should  recommend  sherry  in  this  case,  on  account  of 
mv  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  invalided  condition; 
wnich  might  occasion  rum  to  fly — in  point  of  fact  to 
his  head — and  throw  him  into  a  devil  of  a  state," 

Of  all  tliifi,  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  151 

obviously  nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving 
his  arm  to  Florence,  and  putting  the  strongest  possible 
constraint  upon  his  wilful  legs  which  seemed  deter- 
mined to  go  out  into  the  garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door, 
and  handed  her  into  a  carriage  that  was  ready  for  her 
reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him,  and  they  drove  away. 

Their  ride  was  six  or  eignt  miles  long.  When  they 
drove  through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  lying 
westward  in  London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence 
had,  by  this  time,  put  her  hand  in  Walter's;  and  waa 
looking  very  earnestljr,  and  with  increasing  agitation, 
into  every  new  street  into  which  they  turned. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house 
in  Brook-street,  where  her  fatlier's  unhappy  marriage 
had  been  celebrated,  Florence  said,  "  Walter,  what  is 
this?  Who  is  here?"  Walter  cheering  her,  and  not 
replying,  she  glanced  up  at  the  house-front,  and  saw 
that  all  the  windows  were  shut,  as  if  it  were  unin- 
habited. Cousin  Feenix  had  by  this  time  alighted,  and 
was  offering  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  Walter?" 

"No,  I  will  remain  here.  Don't  tremble!  There  is 
nothing  to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

"  I  know  that,  Walter,  with  you  so  near.  I  am  sure 
of  that,  but — " 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  .and 
Cousin  Feenix  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air 
into  the  close  dull  hous^.  More  sombre  and  brown  than 
ever,  it  seemed  to  have  been  shut  up  from  the  wedding- 
day,  and  to  have  hoarded  darkness  and  sadness  ever 
since, 

Florence  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling: 
and  stopped  with  her  conductor,  at  the  drawing-rooin 
door.  He  opened  it,  without  speaking,  and  signed  an 
entreaty  to  her  to  advance  into  the  inner  room,  while  he 
remained  there.  Florence,  after  hesitating  an  instant, 
complied. 

Sitting  by  the  window  at  a  table,  where  she  seemed  to 
have  been  writing  or  drawing,  was  a  lady,  whose  head, 
turned  away  towards  the  dying  light,  was  resting  on 
her  hand.  Florence  advancmg,  doubtfully,  all  at  once 
stood  still,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  power  of  motion.  The 
lady  turned  her  head. 


452  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Great  Heaven!"  she  said,  "what  ie  this?" 

"No,  nol"  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose 
up,  and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.    '*  Mama! " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride 
had  worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  Edith,  and  beautiful 
and  stately  yet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and 
through  all  the  terrified  avoidance  it  expressed,  there 
was  pity  in  it,  sorrow,  a  grateful  tender  memory.  On 
each  face,  wonder  and  fear  were  painted  vividly;  each, 
so  still  and  silent,  looking  at  the  other  over  the  black 
gulf  of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  teiira, 
she  said,  from  her  full  heart,  "  Oh  mama,  mama'  why 
do  we  meet  like  this?  Why  were  you  ever  kind  to  me 
when  there  was  no  one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like 
this?" 

Edith  stood  before  her  dumb  and  motionless.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"I  dare  not  think  of  that,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  come 
from  papa's'  sick-bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now;  we 
never  shall  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask 
his  pardon,  I  will  do  it,  mama.  I  am  almost  sure  he 
will  grant  it  now,  if  I  ask  him.  May  Heaven  grant  it 
to  you,  too,  and  comfort  you! " 

She  answered  not  a  word, 

"  Walter — I  am  married  to  him,  and  we  have  a  son,"* 
said  Florence,  timidly — "  is  at  the  door,  and  has  brought 
me  here.  I  will  tell  him  that  you  are  repentant:  that 
you  are  changed,"  said  Florence,  looking  mournfully 
upon  her;  "  and  he  will  speak  to  papa  with  me,  I  know. 
Is  there  anything  but  this  that  I  can  do?" 

Edith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or 
limb,  answered  slowly: 

"  The  stain  upon  your  name,  upon  your  husband's,  on 
your  child's.     Will  that  ever  be  forgiven.  Florence?" 

"Will  it  ever  be,  mama?  It  isl  Freely,  freely,  both 
by  Walter  and  by  me.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
there  is  nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certamly. 
You  do  not — you  do  not,"  faltered  Florence,  "  spe^  of 
papa;  but  I  am  sure  you  wish  that  I  should  ask  nim  for 
his  forgiveness.     I  am  sure  you  do." 

She  answered  not  a  word. 

"  I  will! "  said  Florence.  "  I  will  bring  it  you,  if  you 
will  let  me;  and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  45:; 

each  other,  more  like  what  we  used  to  be  to  one  another, 
I  have  not,"  said  Florence  very  gently,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  her,  "  I  have  not  shrunk  back  from  you,  ma- 
ma, because  I  fear  you,  or  because  I  dread  to  be  dis- 
graced by  you.  I  only  wish  to  do  my  duty  to  papa.  I 
am  very  dear  to  him,  and  he  is  very  aear  to  me.  But  I 
never  can  forget  that  you  were  very  good  to  me.  Oh, 
pray  to  Heaven,"  cried  Florence,  falling  on  her  bosom, 
"pray  to  Heaven,  mama,  to  foi-give  you  all  this  sin  and 
shame,  and  to  forgive  me  if  I  cannot  help  doing  this  (if 
it  is  wrong),  when  I  remember  what  you  used  to  be!" 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on 
her  knees,  and  caught  her  round  fhe  neck. 

"Elorencel"  she  cried.  "My  better  angel!  Before  I 
am  mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and 
strikes  me  dumb,  believe  me,  upon  my  soul  I  am  inno- 
cent!" 

"  Mama!" 

"Guilty  of  much!  Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a  waste 
between  us  evermore.  Guilty  of  what  must  separate 
me,  through  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life,  from  pu- 
rity and  innocence— from  you,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty 
of  a  blind  and  passionate  resentment,  of  which  I  do  not, 
cannot,  will  not,  even  now,  repent;  but  not  guilty  with 
that  dead  man.     Before  God! '' 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both 
her  hands  and  swore  it. 

"  Florence! "  she  said,  "  purest  and  best  of  natures, — 
whom  I  love — who  might  nave  changed  me  long  ago, 
and  did  for  a  time  work  some  change  even  m  the 
woman  that  I  am, — believe  me,  I  am  innocent  of  that; 
and  once  more,  on  my  desolate  heart,  let  me  lay  this 
dear  head,  for  the  last  time!" 

She  was  moved  and  weeping.  .Had  she  been  oftener 
thus  in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now, 

"There  is  nothing  else  in  all  the  world."  she  said, 
"  that  would  liave  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no 
hatred,  no  hope,  no  tlireat.  I  said  that  I  would  die,  and 
make  no  sign ;  I  could  have  done  so,  and  I  would,  if  we 
had  never  met,  Florence." 

"I  trust,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambling  in  at  the  door, 
and  speaking  half  in  the  room  and  half  out  of  it.  "that 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  will  excuse  my 
having,  by  a  little  stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.    \. 


454  rtOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cannot  say  that  I  was,  at  first,  wholly  incredulous  as  to 
the  possibility  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
having,  very  unfortunately,  committed  herself  with  the 
deceased  person  with  white  teeth;  because,  in  point  of 
fact,  one  does  see,  in  this  world — which  is  remarkable 
for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for  being  decid- 
(idly  the  most  unintelligible  thing  within  a  man's  expe- 
rience— very  odd  conjunctions  of  that  sort.  But,  as  I 
nuintioned  to  my  friend  Dombey,  I  could  not  admit  tlie 
criminality  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  until 
it  was  perfectly  established.  And  feeling,  when  the 
deceased  person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  destroyed  in  a 
devilish  horrible  manner,  that  her  position  was  a  very 
painful  one — and  feeling  besides  that  our  family  had 
been  a  little  to  blame  in  not  paying  more  attention  to 
her,  and  that  we  are  a  careless  family — and  also  that 
my  aunt,  though  a  devilish  lively  woman,  had  perhaps 
not  been  the  very  best  of  mothers— I  took  the  liberty  of 
seeking  her  in  France,  and  offering  her  such  protection 
as  a  man  very  much  out  at  elbows  could  offer.  Upon 
which  occasion,  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
did  me  the  honor  to  express  tliat  she  believed  I  was.  in 
my  way,  a  deviHsh  good  sort  of  fellow;  and  that  there- 
fore she  put  herself  under  my  protection.  Which  in 
point  of  fact  I  understood  to  he  a  kind  thing  on  the"  part 
of  iny  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  as  I  am  getting 
extremely  shaky,  and  have  derived  great  comfort  from 
her  solicitude." 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a  sofa,  made  a  ges- 
ture with  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to 
say  no  more. 

"  My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,"  resumed 
Cousin  Feenix,  still  ambling  about  the  door,  "  will  ex- 
(;use  me  if,  for  her  satisfaction,  and  my  own,  and  that 
of  my  friend  Dombey,  whose  lovely  and  accomplished 
daughter  we  so  much  admire,  I  complete  the  thread  of 
my  observations.  She  will  remember  that,  from  the 
first,  she  and  I  have  never  alluded  to  the  subject  of  her 
elopement.  My  impression,  certainly,  has  always  been, 
that  there  was  a  mystery  in  the  affair  which  she  could 
explain  if  so  inclined.  But  rav  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  being  a  devilish  resolute  woman,  I  knew  that 
she  was  not,  in  yoint  of  fact,  t^  be  trifled  with,  and 
therefore  did  not  mvo\Mt^  "cft-ssttV^  vu  a.-a.-^  'J\%c\«a\aiis. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  456 

But,  observing  lately,  that  her  accessible  point  did  ap- 
pear to  be  a  very  strong  description  of  tenderness  for 
the  daughter  of  ray  friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  if  I  could  bring  about  a  meeting,  unexpected  on 
i)oth  sides,  it  might  lead  to  beneficial  results.  Therefore, 
we  being  in  London,  in  the  present  private  way  before 
going  to  the  South  of  Italy,  tliere  to  establish  ourselves,  ■ 
in  point  of  fact,  until  we  go  to  our  long  homes,  which 
is  a  devilish  disagreeable  reflection  for  a  man,  I  applied 
myself  to  the  discovery  of  the  residence  of  my  irientl 
Gay — handsome  man  of  au  uncommonly  frank  disposi- 
tion, who  is  probably  known  to  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative— and  had  the  happiness  of  bringing  his 
amiable  wife  to  the  present  place.  And  now,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix,  with  a  i^al  and  genuine  earnestness 
shining  through  the  levity  of  his  manner  and  his  slipshod 
speech,  "  I  do  conjure  my  relative,  not  to  stop  halfway, 
but  to  set  right,  as  far  as  she  can,  whatever  she  has 
done  wrong — not  for  the  honor  of  her  family,  not  for 
her  own  fame,  not  for  any  of  those  considerations  which 
unfortunate  circumstances  have  induced  her  to  regard, 
as  hollow,  and  in  point  of  fact,  as  approaching  to  hum- 
bug— but  because  it  is  wrong,  and  not  right.". 

Cousin  Feeuix's  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  af- 
ter this;  and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the 
door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Flor- 
ence sitting  close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her 
bosom  a  sealed  paper. 

"  I  debated  with  myself  a  long  time,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "  whether  to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dy- 
ing suddenly  or  by  accideut,'  and  feeling  the  want  of  it 
upon  me.  I  have  deliberated,  ever  since,  when  and 
how  to  destroy  it.  Take  it,  Florence.  The  truth  is  writ- 
ten in  it." 

"  Is  it  for  papa? "  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  for  whom  you  will,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  given 
to  you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could  nave 
had  it  otherwise." 

Again  they  sat  silent,  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

"Mama,"  said  Florence,  "  he  has  lost  his  fortune;  he 
has  been  at  tlie  point  of  death ;  he  may  not  recover,  even 
now.  Is  there  any  word  that  I  shtul  aa-y  ^^''^^^^'^"^^ 
you?" 


456  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Did  you  tell  me,"  asked  Kdith,  "  that  you  were  very 
dear  to  him?" 

"Yes!"  said  Florence,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"Tell  him  I  am  sorry  that  T^e  ever  met." 

"No  more?"  said  Florence  after  a  pause. 

"Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I  do  not  repent  of  what 
I  have  done — not  yet — for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to- 
morrow, I  should  do  it.     But  if  he  is  a  changed  man—'" 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent  touch 
of  Florence's  hand  that  stopped  her, 

"—but  that  being  a  changed  man,  he  knows,  now,  it 
would  never  be.     Tell  him  I  wish  it  never  had  heen." 

"  May  I  saj","  said  Florence,  "  that  you  grieved  to  hear 
of  the  afflictions  he  has  suffered?" 

"Not,"  she  replied,  "if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  for 
them  himself,  one  day,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson, 
Florence. " 

"You  wish  well  to  him,  and  would  have  him  happy. 
I  am  sure  you  would!"  said  Florence.  "Oh!  let  me 
be  able,  if  I  have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time  to 
say  so?"    " 

Edith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before 
her,  and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  her 
entreaty:  when  she  arew  her  hand  within  her  arm,  and 
said,  with  the  Bame  thoughtful  gaze  upon  the  night 
outside; 

"  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  anv 
reason  to  compassionate  my  past,  I  sent  word  that  1 
asked  him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  pres- 
ent, he  can  find  a  reason  to  think  less  bitterly  of  me,  I 
asked  him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that,  dead  as  we  are  to 
one  another,  never  more  to  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity, 
he  knows  there  is  one  feeling  in  common  between  us 
now,  that  there  never  was  before." 

Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears 
in  her  dark  eyes. 

"I  trust  myself  to  that,"  she  said,  "for  his  better 
thoughts  of  me,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his 
Florence  most,  he  will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most 
proud  and  happy  in  her  and  her  children,  he  will  be 
most  repentant  of  his  own  part  in  the  dark  vision  of  our 
marriea  life.  At  that  time,  liillV  be  repentant  too — let 
him  know  it  then — auA  t\vTOY\Va.\.-wVtt-tt.A.'OpL'=.\MgtA.w. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON.  45? 

much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made  me  what  I  was. 
I  needed  to  have  allowed  more  for  the  causes  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  I  will  try,  then,  to  forgive 
him  his  share  of  blame.  Let  him  try  to  forgive  me 
mine!" 

"Oh  mama!"  said  Florence.  "How  it  lightens  my 
heart,  even  in  such  a  meeting  and  parting  to  hear  this!  ' 

" Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,"  said  Edith,  "and 
foreign  to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice!  But  even  if  I 
had  been  the  wretched  creature  I  have  given  him  oc- 
casion to  believe  me,  I  think  I  could  have  said  them 
still,  hearing  that  you  and  he  were  very  dear  to  one  an- 
other. Let  nim,  when  you  are  dearest,  ever  feel  that  he 
is  most  forbearing  in  his  thoughts  of  me — that  I  am 
most  forbearing  in  my  thoughts  of  him!  Those  are  the 
last  words  I  send  him!    Now,  good  by,  my  life!" 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  pour  out 
all  her  woman's  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once. 

"  This  kiss  for  your  child!  These  kisses  for  a  blessing 
on  your  head!  My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet  girl, 
farewell!" 

*'  To  meet  again! "  cried  Florence. 

"Never  again!  Never  again!  When  you  leave  me 
in  this  dark  room,  think  that  vou  have  left  me  in  the 
grave.  Rpmember  only  that  1  was  once,  and  that  I 
loved  you!" 

And  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but 
accompanied  by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down 
to  Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room,  upon  whose  shoul- 
der she  laid  her  head  weeping. 

"  I  am  devilish  sorry,"  said  Cousin  Feenii,  lifting  his 
wristbands  to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible, 
and  without  the  least  concealment,  "that  the  lovely  and 
accomplished  daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey  and 
amiable  wife  of  my  friend  Gay,  should  have  her  sensi- 
tive nature  so  very  much  distressed  and  cut  up  by  the 
interview  which  is  just  concluded.  But  I  hope  and  trust 
I  have  acted  for  the  best,  and  that  my  honorable  friend 
Dombey  will  find  his  mind  relieved  by  the  disclosures 
which  have  taken  place.  I  exceedingly  lament  that  my 
friend  Dombey  should  have  got  himself,  in  point  of  taK.^^ 
into  the  devil's  own  state  ot  conftXoTtv^xBJAotv  "Vj^  »»- 
attiaDce  with  our  family;  but  am  &Uo\i.^"5  ct  w^fv^ivs^ 


458  BOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  infernal  Bcoundrel  Barker- 
man  with  white  teeth — everything  would  have  gone  on 
pretty  smoothly.  In  regard  to  my  relative  who  does 
me  the  honor  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly  good 
opinion  of  myself,  I  can  assure  the  amiahle  wife  of 
my  friend  Gay,  that  she  may  rely  on  my  being,  in  point 
of  fact,  a  father  to  her.  And  in  regard  to  the  chan^ 
<jf  human  life,  and  the  extraordinary  manner  in  which 
we  are  perpetually  conducting  ourselves,  all  I  can  sav 
is,  with  my  friend  tihakspt^are — man  who  wasn't  for  aii 
age  but  for  all  time,  and  with  whom  my  friend  Gay 
is  no  doubt  acquainted — that  it's  like  the  shadow  of  ii 
dream. " 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


A  BOTTLE  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light 
of  day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  has  been 
brought  into  the  sunshine;  and  tlie  golden  wine  within 
it  sheds  a  lustre  on  the  table. 

It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr,  Dombey. 
"  This  is  a  very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine," 

The  captain,  who  is  of  the  party,  beams  with  joy. 
There  is  a  very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  fore- 
head. 

"We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observes  Mr. 
Gills,  "  Ned  and  myself,  I  mean — " 

Mr.  Dombey  nods  at  the  captain,  who  shines  more 
and  more  with  speechless  gratification. 

—"that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  other,  to 
Walter  safe  at  home:  though  such  a  home  we  never 
thought  of.  If  you  don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  let 
us  devote  this  first  glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife." 

"To  Walter  and  his  wife!  "says  Mr.  Dombey.  *'  Flor- 
ence, my  child  " — and  turns  to  kise  her. 

"To  Walter  and  his  wife!"  says  Mr.  Toots, 

"  To    WaVr    and  \ua  "wilti'."  •es-iSuxvcaa  •fiwa   (i^s^Aaia, 


t,  Google 


BOMBEY  AND  SON.  450 

'■  Hooroar!"  and  the  captaiu  exhibiting  a  strong  desire 
to  clink  his  glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  with  a  rea^y  hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  fol- 
low; and  there  is  a  blithe  and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a 
little  peal  of  marriage  bells. 

Other  buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did 
in  its  time;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Domboy  is  a  wliite-haired  gentleman,  whose  face 
bears  heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering;  but  they  are 
traces  of  a  storm  that  has  passed  on  for  ever,  and  left  a 
clear  evening  in  its  track. 

Ambitious  projects  trouble  him  no  more.    His  only 

firide  is  in  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a  st- 
ent, thoughtful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his 
daughter.     Miss  Tox  is  not  unfrequeutly  of  the  family 

Earty,  and  is  quite  devoted  to  it,  find  a  great  favorite, 
[er  admiration  of  her  once  stately  patron  is,  and  has 
been  ever  since  the  morning  of  her  shock  in  Princess's- 
place,  platonic,  but  not  weakened  in  the  least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  his 
fortunes,  but  a  certain  annual  suni  that  comes  he  knows 
not  liow,  with  an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek 
to  discover,  and  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  a  debt, 
and  an  act  of  reparation.  He  has  consulted  with  his 
old  clerk  about  this,  who  is  clear  it  may  be  honorably 
accepted,  and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out  of  some  forgot- 
ten transaction  in  the  times  of  the  old  House. 

That  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  a  bachelor  no  more,  is  mar- 
ried now,  and  to  the  sister  of  the  grey-haired  junior. 
He  visits  his  old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  There  is 
a  reason  in  the  grey-haired  junior's  history,  and  yet  a 
stronger  reason  in  his  name,  why  he  should  keep  re- 
tired from  his  old  employer;  and  as  he  lives  with  his 
sister  and  her  husband,  they  participate  in  that  retire- 
ment. Walter  sees  them  sometimes — Florence  too^ — 
and  the  pleasant  house  resounds  with  profound  duets 
arrangeci  for  the  pianoforte  and  violoncello,  and  with 
the  labors  of  Harmonious  Blacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  Wooden  Midshipman  in  these 
changed  days?  Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  fore- 
most, hard  at  work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and 
more  on  the  alert  than  ever,  being  newly  ^a.v&.^fc'Ji.  V»s«^ 
his  cocked  hat  to  his  buckled  sVvo*js-,  aai'M.^  ^ivy^-s^  Vnx&., 


iCA)  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  I 

in  golden  characters,    these    names    shine   refulgent,  I 
Gills  and  Cuttle.  I 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman  I 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.     But  tliey  do  sav,  I 
in  a  circuit  of  some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella  I 
in  Leadenhall  Market,  that  some  of  Mr,  Gills's  old  iu-  I 
vestments  are  coming  out  wonderfully  well;  and  that  I 
instead  of  being  behind  the  time  in  those  respects,  as  he   I 
supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a  little  before  it,  and  had  to   1 
wait  the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.     The  whis- 
per is  that  Mr.  Gills's  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself,    | 
and  that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly. 
Certain  it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop  door,  in  his 
coffee-colored  suit,  with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  he  don't  appear  to 
break  his  neartat  customers  not  coming,  but  looks  very 
jovial  and  contented,  though  full  as  misty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner.  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of 
a  business  m  the  captain's  mind  which  is  better  than 
anj"  reality.  The  captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Mid- 
shipman's importance  to  the  commerce  and  navigation 
of  the  country,  as  he  could  possibly  be,  if  no  ship  left 
the  port  of  London  without  tne  Midshipman's  assistance. 
His  delight  in  his  own  name  over  the  door,  is  inexhausti- 
ble. He  crosses  the  street,  twenty  times  a-day,  to 
look  at  it  from  the  other  side  of  the  way;  and  invariably 
says,  on  these  occasions,  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if 
your  mother  could  ha'  know'd  as  you  would  ever  be  a 
man  o'  science,  the  good  old  creetur  would  ha'  been 
took  aback  in-deedl " 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman 
with  violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots's  face  is  very  red 
as  he  bursts  into  the  little  parlor. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Mr.  Sola,  I  arr. 
happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots  has  had  an  increase 
to  her  family." 

"  And  it  does  her  credit!  "  cried  the  captain, 

"  I  give  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots! "  says  old  Sol. 

"  Tliankee,"  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  ''I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  knew  that  you'd  be  glad  to  hear,  and 
so  I  came  down  myself.  We're  positively  getting  on, 
you  know.  There's  Florence,  and  Susan,  and  now 
here's  another  little  stranger." 

"A  female  strangetV  Sii,<3;»Mea 'Ca.ft  *^V'*aK»- 

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DOMBEY  AND  SON.  4(il 

"  Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "and  I'm  glad 
of  it.  The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraordi- 
nary woman,  my  opinion  is,  the  better!  " 

"  Stand  by  I"  says  the  captain,  turning  to  the  old  case- 
bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening,  and  the  Mid- 
shipman's usual  moderate  provisions  of  pipes  and 
glasses  is  on  the  board,  "  Here's  to  her,  and  may  she 
nave  ever  so  many  more!" 

"  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,"  says  the  delighted  Mr. 
Toots.  "  I  echo  tne  sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me,  as 
my  BO  doing  cannot  be  unpleasant  to  anybody,  under 
the  circumstances,  I  think  I'll  take  a  pipe. 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in  the 
openness  of  hisneart  is  very  loquacious. 

"Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful 
woman  has  given  of  her  excellent  sense.  Captain  Gills 
and  Mr.  Sols,'-'  says  Toots,  "  I  think  none  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  perfection  with  which  she  has  un- 
derstood my  devotion  to  Miss  Dombey." 

Both  his  auditors  assent. 

"Because,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "I  have 
never  changed  my  sentiments  towards  Miss  Dombey. 
They  are  the  same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright 
vision  to  me,  at  present,  that  she  was  before  I  made 
Walters's  acquaintance.  When  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself 
first  began  to  talk  of — in  short,  of  the  tender  passion, 
you  know.  Captain  Gills." 

"Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  says  the  captain,  "  as  makes  us  all 
slue  round — for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  book — " 

"I  shall  certainly  do  so,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  great  earnestness;  "  when  we  first  began  to 
mention  such  subjects,  I  explained  that  I  was  what  you 
may  call  a  blighted  flower,  you  know." 

The  captain  approves  of  this  figure  greatly;  and  mur- 
murs that  no  flower  as  blows,  is  like  tne  rose. 

"  But  Lord  bless  me,"  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  "she  was 
as  entirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as  1 
was  myself.  There  was  nothing  I  could  tell  her.  She 
was  the  only  person  who  could  have  stood  between  me 
and  the  silent  tomb,  and  she  did  it,  in  a  manner  to  com- 
mand my  everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that 
there's  nobody  in  the  world  I  look  up  to.  as  I  do  to  Miss 
Dombey.  She  knows  that  there's  nothing  on  earth  I 
.   wouldn't  do  for  Miss  Oombey,     She  knows  that  I  coa- 


■m  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

aider  her  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  amiable,  the  most 
angelic  of  her  aex.  What  is  her  observation  upon  tliat? 
The  perfection  of  sense.  '  My  dear  you're  right,  1 
think  so  too.'" 

"  And  so  do  I! "  says  the  captain. 

*'  So  do  I,"  says  Sol  Gills. 

"  Then,"  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  ex- 
pressed the  most  contented  reflection,  "  what  an  ob- 
servant womanmywifeis!  Whatsagacity  she  possesses! 
What  remarks  she  makes!  It  was  onlv  last  night,  when 
we  were  sitting  in  the  enjoyment  of  connubial  bliss— 
which,  upon  my  word  ana  lionor,  is  a  feeble  term  to 
e.xpress  my  feelings  in  the  society  of  my  wife — that  she 
said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider  the  present 
position  of  our  friend  Walters.  'Here,'  observes  my 
wife,  'he  is,  released  from  sea-going,  after  that  first 
long  voyage  with  his  young  bride ' — as  you  know  he 
was,  Mr.  Sols." 

"Quite  true,"  says  the  old  Instrument-maker^  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

'*  'Here  he  is,'  says  my  wife,  '  released  from  that,  im- 
mediately; appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to  a 
Eost  of  great  trust  and  confidence  at  home;  showing 
imself  again  worthy;  mounting  up  the  ladder  with  the 
greatest  expedition;  beloved  by  everybody;  assisted  by 
his  uncle  at  the  very  best  possible  time  of  his  fortunes' 
— which  I  think  is  the  case,  Mr,  Sols?  My  wife  is  al- 
ways correct." 

"  Why  yes,  yes — some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted 
with  gold,  have  come  home,  truly,"  returns  old  Sol, 
laughing.  "Small  craft,  Mr.  Toots,  but  serviceable  to 
my  boy!" 

"  Exactly  so!  "  says  Mr.  Toots.  "  You'll  never  find  my 
wife  wrong.  '  Here  he  is,'  says  that  most  remarkable 
woman,  'so  situated, — and  wnat  follows?  What  fol- 
lows? '  obKerve<i  Mrs.  Toots.  Now  pray  remark.  Captain 
Gills,  and  Mr.  Sols,  the  depth  of  my  wife's  penetration, 
'  Why,  that  under  the  very  eye  of  Mr.  Dombey  there 
is  a  foundation  going  on,  upon  which  a — an  Edifice;' 
that  was  Mrs.  Toots  word,"  says  Mr,  Toots,  exultingly, 
" '  is  gradually  rising  perhaps  to  equal,  perhaps  excel, 
that  of  which  no  was  once  the  head,  and  the  small  be- 
ginnings of  which  (a  common  fAult,  but  a  bad  one. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  463 

Mrs.  Toots  said)  escaped  his  memory.  Thus,'  said  my 
wife,  'from  his  daughter,  after  all,  another  Domhey 
and  Son  will  ascend'— no  'rise;'  that  was  Mrs.  Toots's 
word — '  triumphant! ' " 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipo — which  he 
is  extremely  glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  its 
proper  use  affects  him  with  a  very  uncomfortable  sen- 
sation— does  such  grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sen- 
tence of  his  wife's,  that  the  captain,  throwing  away  his 
glazed  hat  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  cries: 

"  Sol  Gills,  you  man  of  science,  and  my  ould  pardncr, 
what  did  I  tell  Wal'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night 
when  he  first  took  to  business?  Was  it  this  here  quota- 
tion, '  Turn  again  Whittington  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it.' 
Was  it  them  words;  Sol  Gills?" 

"It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  old  Instrument- 
maker.     "  I  remember  well." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what,"  sa/s  the  captain,  leaning 
hack  in  his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a  pro- 
digious roar,  "  I  '11  give  you  Lovely  Peg  right  through; 
and  stand  by,  both  on  you,  for  the  chorus! ' 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did,  in 
its  time;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach 
there  are  often  a  young  lady,  and  a  white-haired  gentle- 
man. With  them  or  near  them,  are  two  children:  boy 
and  girl.    And  an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little 
boy,  talks  with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends 
upon  him,  watches  him,  as  if  he  wore  the  object  of  his 
life.  If  he  is  thoughtful,  the  white-haired  gentleman  is 
thoughtful  too;  and  sometimes  when  the  child  is  sitting 
by  his   side,  and  looks  up  in  his  face,  asking  him 

?uestion6,  he  takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it, 
orgets  to  answer.    Then  the  child  says: 

"  What,  grandpapa,  am  I  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Paul.  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very 
strong." 

"  On  yes,  I  am  very  strong." 

"  Ana  he  lay  on  the  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and 
you  can  run  about." 


4(11 


DOMEEY  AND  SON. 


And  so  they  ranee  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white- 
haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and 
stirring;  and  as  they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the 
bond  between  them  goes  ahout,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of 
the  white-haired  gentlemau's  affection  for  the  girl. 
That  story  never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost 
wonders  at  a  certain  secrecy  lie  keeps  in  it.  He  hoaads 
her  in  his  heart.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  a  cloud  upon 
her  face.  He  cannot  hear  to  see  her  sit  apart.  He 
fancies  that  she  feels  a  slight,  when  there  is  none.  He 
steals  away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It  pleases  him 
to  have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in  tho  morning.  He 
is  fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  is 
no  creature  by.    The  child  says  then,  sometimes: 

"Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss 
me?" 

He  only  answers  "Little  Florence!  Little  Florence!" 
and  smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest 


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